Six Underground
by dietplainlite
Summary: "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down." As far as we know, Sherlock has never let Lestrade down. What's the story, Morning Glory? Set in 1996. Rated M for drug use.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Obviously I don't own the characters. Also, I began writing this before the Casebook came out and essentially made Sherlock 5 years younger than I had written him in this story. So here you have a 20 year old Sherlock in 1996. Some triggers re: drug use. **

Others have told him that when they come down it is slow. They can feel it coming and the search for more begins the second the wave crests. That they have time. He doesn't know if it's his metabolism or his brain chemistry, but he never has warning. He never has time to prepare. Never has time to chase down the next one (as if he needed to, he has enough money to supply himself into a coma if he didn't need to keep up some semblance of appearance lest his brother become nosier than usual.)

No.

For him, one moment he is, as his flat mate puts it so eloquently, "floating on a cloud made of tits," with his mind mercifully shut off and doing nothing more invasive than recalling symphonies, and the next he is wide awake, sweaty and nauseous, every part of his damnable body screaming with some form of need.

When he was younger and still mildly interested in certain things other boys his age found compelling, he'd developed a fascination with the mega villain in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series. Not Shredder. Shredder was a small time thug who focused on the wrong thing. No. It was always Krang. The big brain, who was free of his body, inhabiting an exo-suit that made him do the things he needed, with none of the nuisances that come along with having a body made of meat and fluid. It was brilliant. When he was allowed to join in on the other boys' games, he never wanted to be one of the turtles (though he had by that time developed an interest in martial arts) and he lacked the warmth to play the wise old rat, Splinter. No, it was always Krang. Which was perfect, really. Because none of the boys wanted to be Krang anyway, because he was just a big brain in a can and wasn't cool. They actually considered Shredder to be cooler. The twats.

Of course, they hadn't always let him play. And other times he was just too busy, researching furiously, desperate to know if it were possible. To be a brain without a body. It seemed the ultimate goal of evolution, and if it were possible he'd be the first to volunteer.

Then one day he realized, eyes growing wide, that his observations needed more than his brain, which was, after all, merely a processing center for stimuli. He relied on his other senses completely. And besides, there were some things that he thoroughly enjoyed that required a body to fully experience. Music, for one. He wasn't sure he could live without that. And the lemon tarts that his old nanny sent him occasionally from Cornwall. The smell of old books. A scalding, solitary shower at home after the tepid water and boyish shenanigans of his residence hall shower. The electrical feeling that ran from the crown of his head to his fingertips when he worked out a particularly pressing problem. And cats. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, cats were nice. For all of that, he could ignore the body's more annoying demands, at least until they screamed to be met.

For a while he turned his mind to researching monasteries and convents, dismayed to find that living a purely ascetic life meant a life shunning the outside world. He needed the outside world or he would go mad in his own head. So what then? Christians believe that the body is a temple. He simply created a monastery of his own body.

That had lasted until puberty hit him like the combined forces of the Spanish Inquisition and the Reformation. He grew almost a foot between age 12 and 13, but only gained 10 pounds. His curly mop of hair had to be closely cropped because if left to come in contact with his forehead for long, it left in its wake a trail of angry red spots. His voice, which had sung so beautifully during chapel for years, was suddenly as uncontrollable as a scared rabbit, and why, oh why did his penis decide that everything from scoring a run in cricket to getting a glimpse of the candy shop lady's slip to just the right breeze meant it was the perfect time to make its presence known?

And of course, of course, this would be just the time they decided to let them interact with the girls from the sister school. The girls were easy enough to avoid at the fundraisers and carnivals. But oh, cotillion. The word is still hateful to him and only brings up feelings of horrible embarrassment, apologies, crushed toes, gangly limbs and thinking about anything, anything but the way his partner's hair smelled, desperately trying to will away the hateful erections.

Amazingly enough, he's been told recently, at the insipid debutante balls that cotillion was the training ground for, that he's an excellent dancing partner.

Besides all of the usual boy on boy experimentation, he also managed to fumble his way into a few girls' bedrooms, usually town girls. This was mostly because it was easy for him to deduce the right things to say to get him there. It was often harder to deduce the right things to say to get him out. Though he began to pick up on certain signs in girls that they were as disinclined toward romantic affairs as he, and he trawled those waters exclusively.

Once at uni, his hormones settled just enough to allow him spare moments to think, and he set about again to live the bodily life of the ascetic. He shunned sex in all its forms, ate only when lack of nutrients affected his mind, and slept only when he was on the edge of delirium. He originally thought he'd study neuroscience and psychology, but was also drawn to biology, chemistry, and music. He dabbled around with it all, often dropping into classes he wasn't enrolled in, only to be shunted out when he was a complete tit to the professor or teacher's assistant. He attended the classes he was actually enrolled in only often enough to stay in them and have a passing knowledge of what was expected. He kept his grades up just enough to keep his mother and brother out of his affairs. But then came the incident with the stolen head, and nothing even in her power or pockets could keep him from getting sent down.

It was at the next school that he discovered drugs. He'd previously dismissed them as a hedonistic distraction, much like sex, but soon became curious about stimulants. It was true that cocaine was fantastic for brain work, but it came with almost instantaneous cravings for more, which was incredibly distracting. How can one think when the second after you feel the rush (while your head is still very much feeling the rush) you are immediately thinking about how long it will be before you can safely take another hit? He also viewed a few CT scans of chronic cocaine abusers and decided that the collateral damage wasn't worth it. His experiment with cocaine only lasted a month, and he now only uses it when he can't get out of bed after a particularly long heroin bender.

He is between schools at the moment, having been sent down from the last one for not keeping his marks up or attending classes. He'd spent most of his time at his flat, in the library, or skulking around the labs. Now he spends his time back in London hanging around at University College, trying to befriend a medical student or two, sometimes popping in to audit a class. (Invariably he was kicked out after one or two sessions) He sometimes wanders over to City University. Biding his time until Mother either get him into a new school or gives up and banishes him abroad for volunteer work.

Today he has been thinking on those lemon tarts that Miss Henley used to send him when he was in boarding school, so he makes his way to a bakery on Moreland St. He doesn't necessarily want a tart, because nothing tastes like those. But sweet is the only thing that will work right now. It's an interesting side effect, one he hasn't studied enough. He can't remember the last time he ate something savory.

She is sitting at a table for two in a corner near the fireplace. One cup of tea, milky, gone cold, taking a tiny sip from it every five minutes or so, trying to make it last. Athletic calves wrapped in tall buttery grey leather Cole Haan lace up boots and black cashmere tights. The boots are three seasons old and have been re-soled at least once, and the tights are starting to show quite a bit of wear about the knees. Plain black pleated skirt (vintage-school uniform-charity shop) and a faded concert tour shirt (Pearl Jam, 1991 US Tour, [had she gone to the States to see them or did she just want people to think so? They came to Europe soon after.])

Curly dark hair pulled up into a massive, wild ponytail, several streaks of purple well placed throughout. Not a professional dye job but her friend had a way with the bottle. A few loose curls frame a pretty, yet decidedly petulant face dominated by fierce, dark brown eyes. Her skin is the color of the tea she is sipping. She is swotting furiously , poring over flash cards for a criminology exam. Third year, comes from money, parents don't approve of her course of study so they cut her off. The only "new" clothes she acquires are cast offs or from the charity shops, and occasionally she has to sell something very nice. She left home with lots of shoes and party dresses. She'll never sell the plaid Vivienne Westwood jacket that's hanging from her chair, though. (1970s, belonged to a favorite aunt.) New-ish Discman, gift from the aunt? Or a boyfriend? Girlfriend? No, she's got a photo of Eddie Vedder glued to one of her notebooks. (Beginning to look like she had flown to the States to see them.)

He decides she's interesting enough to talk to. He is also craving a hit madly and is forcing his body to hold off. Heroin has been an experiment in fighting the body's cravings. He has mastered sex and food and companionship, but he wants to take it to the limit and see just how much he can put his body through and still be able to think. Or so he tells himself. He is able to detect lies in others almost instantaneously, but remains masterful in his ability to lie to himself. He inventories his current symptoms: Slightly shaky. A bit sweaty. Mild nausea. The beginning twinges of muscle aches. He will be fine for a while. His person and clothing are clean-ish. Faded blue jumper, sleeve ends unraveling a bit, slightly baggy jeans hanging just at his hips. Doc Martens. He is frayed but presentable. (He has not been cut off-yet-he just prefers to spend his money on other things.) He looks like a student, and any outward symptoms could be attributed to being over-caffeinated and under-slept. He visits the media centre of his Mind Palace momentarily, flipping through the musical catalog until he finds what he needs.

He orders a hot cup of tea and two sticky buns and makes his way to her. He is momentarily distracted by a couple, slumped in the corner over hot chocolate and a single sweet roll (high as kites with plenty more where the first hit came from.) But no, it's not time yet. It's manageable and he's going to prove it.

"It's a bit chilly by the door," he says, gesturing toward the only empty table. "May I join you?"

She looks at him for approximately three seconds, taking in his hands (shaking) , the dark circles under his eyes (bruise like) the sheen of sweat on his forehead (odd since he says he's chilly), the state of his clothing, and the sweets in his hand.

"I don't date junkies," she says, and looks back down at her notebook. Flips a page pointedly.

Sherlock allows himself a nanosecond for surprise before continuing (stay cool, keep it light.)

He smiles and chuckles disarmingly (he hopes.)

"Well, I'm not sure what your usual idea of a date is, but I'd hope it's more than a couple of sad pastries in a third rate bakery. I just wanted to sit by the fire and hoped an offering of hot tea and sustenance would ease the intrusion."

Her eyes move to the pastries and she licked her lips slightly before pursing them. She is ravenous but she's saving her money for a proper dinner.

"Fine. But don't talk," she says, moving a stack of textbooks to the floor. She changes the CD in her Discman to the Stone Roses and turns up the volume. Goes back to her flash cards. Turns away from him.

He studies her profile as he devours his sticky bun. She picks at hers, though he knows she wants to down it in two bites. When he's finished, he decides to risk her wrath and talk to her. His bones are starting to ache and he needs distraction and he needs to know if he's right about her.

"Criminal Justice then, not Law?"

She whips her headphones off and faces him.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it must be criminal justice, because I don't see many parents deciding to disown a daughter who wants to be a barrister. Police work a little plebeian then, after all the hard work they did to bring you up in style?"

"I don't know who you've been talking to, you creepy bastard, but stalking is illegal and I'll crush your nuts before I call the police if you don't piss off."

"I haven't talked to anyone. In fact, other than the girl at the till you're the first person I've uttered words to today, possibly in several days. I merely used the same skills of observation, though mine are much more keenly honed, to make my conclusions about you as you did to determine my more nefarious extracurricular habits. Anyhow, someone still loves you enough to give you nice gifts relating to your other passion, being music, even if they can't afford to pay your school fees or feed you properly anymore, otherwise you'd be lugging around your Walkman from college and a bag full of cassette tapes from the early 90s. From your aunt? The one who gave you the vintage Westwood jacket? That jacket couldn't possibly belong to your mum. If she's uptight enough to cut you off based on your career choice she'd never be caught dead in anything plaid and fur trimmed."

She folds her arms and glares. He thinks her eyes may actually have become darker. (No, not actually possible.)

"Am I wrong?"

"My gran," she says. "She's a bit of a free spirit, as my dad says. Some American boy toy made off with all her money. Dad's cut her off, too. She helps me when she can."

"Damn. Always something," he mutters.

"What was that, Freak?"

"Nothing. The name is Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"

"Sarah."

"Sarah, ah. Hebrew for princess. But you don't go by that, do you?"

"Sally. Donovan."

"So why criminal justice and not law?"

"White wigs don't suit me."

"You'd surely have an easier go of it all around if you were a barrister."

"Who said I liked things easy? And what do you mean, easier? Easier to go into law because of my 'double handicap?'"

"You mean being a woman of color? Yes. I certainly don't see it as a handicap but the fact remains that it's very difficult for any female police officer and doubly so for a black woman. I'm sure that was one of your father's arguments."

"Well, I happen to believe that being a woman is an asset. We bring a different perspective to police work and to investigations.

"Ah, a French feminist. Fascinating."

"You're really either going to have to shut up or sod off," she says, picking up her flash cards again. She doesn't put her headphones back on. Yet.

"You know, those are a spectacular waste of time."

"This is how I always revise and I've always gotten top marks," she says, not looking up from her work.

"I didn't say it doesn't work, I just said it's a waste of time. How often do you have to use the same cards during a term to go over the same information when you could just store it away in your Mind Palace and only review it once."

"My Mind Palace."

"Well, I suppose the actual term is memory palace or memory place, but it's just semantics. It's also called Method of Loci and has been used since the ancient Greeks and Romans were piddling around creating great civilizations. Basically, it's easier to remember something if it's associated with a location than it is to just extract it from your brain. I use a palace; some people use a row of shops or apartments. Some just use one room. I store things in different rooms, though some of it I just put in the bins because I don't need it and don't see myself needing it in the future. "

"And this works."

"Ask me something, some kind of primary school fact or skill that you haven't used since."

"Erm," she says, looking around a bit. She points to a random passage in an open case study. "Diagram this sentence."

"Oh, this will be good. Okay." He takes a moment, staring at a point over her shoulder. His eyes move rapidly for about five seconds.

"Got it!" he says suddenly, picking up a pencil. "It was in the nursery in an old toy chest with some cricket statistics and Latin poetry. I haven't sorted through things in a while. I think it's time for a house cleaning."

After he diagrams the sentence, he slides it over to her. Then he jots down on another piece of paper:

Sentence Structure

Ovid

Solar System

Cricket nonsense

Playmates of the year 1988-1994

"That'll be a good start."

"You're insane."

"Undoubtedly, but it works. Want me to tell you how to do it?"


	2. Chapter 2

He has filled the ashtray and she has drained several more mugs of tea. He takes his leave of her as soon as he cannot focus anymore.

He says goodbye in the middle of one of her sentences. She is saying that she frequents that bakery because it is warm and stays open late, and the pubs can be too noisy for study. They do not exchange phone numbers or email addresses.

He will not seek her out.

She is clever, with a prickly exterior. He likes that, but he has no interest in finding how deep the prickliness goes. She is not as clever as he, but no one ever is. (Well, one person is.) He thinks that if he ever met anyone else living who is as brilliant as he, that he won't know whether to snog them or kill them. He may just sit and stare for a few days.

He does steal one of her Oasis CDs. He tells himself he doesn't know why.

He makes his way back to his flat, on foot, heart beating in anticipation. He wills his body to relax, to wait just a moment more. Lets himself in. The place isn't extraordinarily filthy. The cleaning lady has been in, so most of the grime has been removed where it is visible between piles of books and clothes. (Didn't do the dishes, second week in a row. Time to put another advert up.) He changes into pyjamas. Turns on the kettle.

He usually keeps his stash on him for safe keeping, but his rig is in his bedroom, in a shoebox marked "Mementos" in the back of his closet. In the box, among a collection of rocks and shells and childhood ephemera, is small woven basket with a lid that a childhood pen pal had sent from a trip to a Choctaw Reservation in Oklahoma. In it are a few needles, alcohol swabs, cotton balls, a lighter, one of his school ties, and a silver spoon from his family's country estate. He's not sure if it's been missed, hopes none of the staff have been blamed if it has. He lays all of these articles out in precise order on a clean towel on his duvet. The kettle clicks.

After, he is lying on his bed in his dressing gown. He has been listening to music for hours. Right now, Handel's Water Music. Instead of majestic rivers, this piece has always made him picture a rabbit bounding about a meadow, happily avoiding by chance, not skill, every mishap that comes his way.

Her CD is on the night stand. He will consider putting it on later, when he can focus on words.

As the final movement draws to a close, he is about to press repeat on the remote when the doorbell rings. Christ, he hopes that his flat mate is home or that whoever it is gives up and goes away. But no, it persists. For several minutes. One long buzz after another. And then, like that, he is mostly sober. He stumbles to the door and jerks it open. There is Sally Donovan. She is shorter than he surmised, but he doesn't think he is misreading that she would very much like to punch him in the face.

"Give it back."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You nicked my Oasis CD."

"Oh, that, yes. An experiment. I wanted to see how long it took you to come round for it and if your budding detective skills were up to tracking me down."

She pushes past him, into the lounge.

"Didn't take much to find you. You've got a bit of a reputation for skulking about like some kind of heroin chic slacker ghostie. I told my friends I'd met an interesting boy today. Total junkie, almost fell asleep twice while we were talking, but beautiful grey eyes and dark curly hair. Hollowed out cheekbones like something out of Bronte novel. A complete psycho, because he got me talking about my gran and then stole a CD off of me. Couldn't have been about money since he obviously isn't wanting for it. One of them knew who you were right away. Said you'd been trying to cozy up to her boyfriend in order to get access to the morgue. I probably shouldn't encourage you, but you'd probably have more luck with the female med students."

Sherlock shows her into his room and gestures to the CD. His room is clean and free of any of the usual detritus of addiction. She is surprised.

"Why do you think I have money?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes. "For starters, there's that posh accent and the way, even when you're standing up, that you look as though you're leaning on your gun while standing over the carcass of some poor animal you've just shot for fun. And you're a more than casual drug user who doesn't have a job and isn't in school, yet you aren't living on the streets letting old men suck you off for fivers."

"I have it on good authority that the going rate is twenty quid. Tea? We can use the best China."

"You know, I could have just called the police. I figured they'd be much more interested in the other things they'd find while searching for my CD. "

"But you didn't, and you really wouldn't have, because you know they're far too busy to be bothered with a stolen CD or a small time user. We don't deal, so we're under the radar as long as we don't OD in public." He heads through the lounge into the kitchen and turns on the kettle.

Sally grabs the disc, follows him to the kitchen and looks at him expectantly. So definitely a yes to the tea. He hasn't had a sober girl stay in his company for this long in ages.

"Ah," he says.

"Ah, what?"

"Now I know why. A copper's beat over the court room. You like danger."

"Do I?"

She is leaning back on the counter. He goes to her, right inside the perimeter of her personal space.

"Of course. You came alone to the flat of a male drug user with whom you're not well acquainted , in a not quite gentrified part of town, in order to retrieve an item that, while having some sentimental value, is easily replaced even in your dire financial straits. You had no idea if I lived alone or would be alone, and how I would react to your presence. "

"I told my girlfriends where I was going."

"No you didn't, because they would have insisted on coming or sending one of their boyfriends. "

"Oh aren't you the cat that ate the canary? Well it's not like I want to shag you. Probably can't get it up, anyway."

"Actually, priapism tends to be a symptom of withdrawal, though you are in fact, right, that it is often hard to maintain an erection while actively using. "

"You're fucking bonkers. Forget about tea, Freak, I'm leaving." She pushes past him, grabbing her bag as she stomps to the door.

"But it's just boiled."

"Piss off!"

And she is gone.

But the CD is still on the counter. He knows she will remember it before she gets down the stairs, but has too much pride to come back for it. At least not today. He puts it in the disc changer, lies down, and turns it on.

Lights a cigarette and smiles.

"Definitely…maybe."


	3. Chapter 3

Sally doesn't come back round, but he is busy with other things and only thinks about her when the disc changer rotates to her CD. He took her advice and has been occupied with a pretty little Goth medical student named Cheryl who never shows any squeamishness about dissections or post mortems. On their first date, he watched her eat dinner as he sipped tea (she giggled about how it's usually the other way around for her on dates.) On their second date, they rented Flatliners and watched it at her flat. She was wide eyed the entire movie, and joked about how in primary school they'd played the "Fainting Game," making each other pass out and then telling each other the crazy things their minds had done while they were unconscious. It doesn't take long for him to convince her to help in his experiment.

He wants to find out how much he can use in a six hour period without over dosing. He also wants to know what this will do to his brain. She consents to monitor his vitals and perform an EEG, but she draws the line at a CT scan because she would need a technician to run it and there's no one she can trust.

Their third date is spent in a darkened lab on a Saturday night, with sensor pads all over Sherlock's head and a heart monitor clipped to his index finger. Cheryl is nervous (she wasn't able to obtain a crash cart) but exacting and efficient. Her bedside manner is soothing. She even procures some pharmaceutical grade heroin (he pays for it but doesn't ask how she got it because he most emphatically does not want to know) so that the results are not marred by impurities. They decide to do a drip, as she is worried about multiple injections sites and because the IV will make it easier to calibrate the doses. It will also make it easier to administer naloxone if his heart or respiration become seriously depressed. As she works, the nervous giggles and fidgeting are gone; she just talks to him softly. Mostly about her course work, but also about the other students in her program. She tells him that most of her classmates have done some form of crazy experimenting on themselves or each other; she's just never been involved. She also says that almost every one of them is on cocaine or the new ADHD medication, Adderall. It's the only way to keep up with the course load. He rambles a bit to her, mostly about bees. In the end, they go through 100mg and she has not even had to consider the naloxone.

She comes to his flat a few more times after she delivers his EEG results, but soon stops after she realizes that he is not going to sleep with her.

Sherlock is alarmed by both the EEG results and his incredible tolerance. He is also alarmed by the lovely cream envelope that arrives in the post the same day Cheryl drops off the results. It is an invitation to his brother's wedding. He knows that if he skips out on it, he will be hunted down and sent to rehab. He also knows that if he turns up at the wedding in his present state, he will be shunted off to rehab. As much as he loves irritating his brother, he cannot have that. So he strips his room and bathroom of everything but a mattress, gives his flat mate Gary a ridiculous sum of money to check on him if he goes quiet for too long, promises him an even more ridiculous amount of money for his refusal to accept any bribes, and locks himself in.

Three days. All the research had said it would take three days, five at the outside. But it has been weeks, and while he is mostly able to function, has been able to get his room cleaned and back in order, he still feels as though he's fighting a nasty flu. His thoughts are even more sluggish than his body. He spends a lot of time cocooned in his bed, walking through his mind palace and setting things to rights. It is a mess, as though it has been ransacked; some things missing (he hopes temporarily) and others in the wrong place.

He is thus occupied one afternoon near the end of term when Sally barges into the flat without ringing the bell.

"Well, the damned computer lab is busier than a whore house on pay day and I've got a paper to write. Yours has a word processor and a printer, right?"

Her hair is down and the purple streaks have been replaced with crimson. Black dress (hangs on her), black tights (not the ones from their first meeting), black boots (Army Surplus), and looking a good five pounds thinner than when he last saw her. Perhaps seven. She's carrying a canvas messenger bag that may weigh more than she does. She drops it by his desk, powers on his computer and starts moving stacks of paper around. She stops abruptly, turns and looks him over.

"So you've quit, then? Just like that?"

"Erm, no," he says, "Well, yes, cold turkey but, it was—is—decidedly more difficult than I'd imagined."

She starts to speak but laughs softly instead.

"What?"

"Almost suggested you go to meetings but I'd imagine if you turned up at an NA meeting it'd be five minutes before everyone relapsed. Is this all the paper you've got, Freak?"

"Bottom drawer on the right. Is there anything else you need? Dial-up number? Tea? First born child?"

"I'll go halves on Chinese if you'll order it." She puts on her headphones, cracks open a book. "And my CD, please. Just put it in my bag."

He orders finger foods for her, fried dumplings, and egg rolls. Things she can eat more easily while working. He manages most of an order of egg drop soup. He is not currently fighting his appetite, it simply hasn't returned. She remarks that between them, it's probably the saddest Chinese dinner ever.

Her fortune says, "Love is a friendship set to music."

His says, "You like Chinese food."

She introduces him to Alanis Morissette (so illustrative of the psyche of Sally) and he plays her some Rachmaninoff on his violin. Her paper is on moral ambiguities in _Crime and Punishment._ He offers to write it for her (it would take him two hours at most, what with the current state of his brain) but the music is the only assistance she will accept.

Sally is still working when he dozes off shortly before dawn.

As much time as he's been spending in bed, little of it has been spent sleeping. There are nightmares. He frantically tries to bin whatever it is that may be causing these fractured, suffocating images but they keep coming over and over. He knows that the nightmares are just a result of his brain trying to re-calibrate but that doesn't help the very real terror he feels when he sleeps. He is glad to have her there, silhouetted by the glow of the screen and his desk lamp, fingers clacking away, flipping pages softly and sighing. It is like having Miss Henley in the rocking chair in the nursery, crocheting in the lamp light, but also strangely mixed up with evenings in the garden with a girl cousin whom he'd been dangerously attracted to summer term when he was fourteen.

When he wakes up the chair is empty, but her bag is still on the floor. (Still here, then.) He finds her in the lounge, curled on the sofa with his dressing gown thrown over her. Her face is so vulnerable in sleep that she is hardly recognizable. He wonders how long it will take for the frustrations of her chosen career to stamp out these last vestiges of softness. She sleeps with one hand under the pillow. He finds it best to let her sleep while he makes tea and toast.

She wakes up just as he is setting everything on the tray. It is instantaneous and she is frantic.

"Oh fuck! Fuck! What time is it?"

"Half seven. You said it's due by nine. Is it finished?"

"Yes. Oh sod. I was just going to lie down for a moment, was too bleary to navigate the tube and didn't have money for a taxi." She starts gathering up her hair into a ponytail, searches her bag for gum and perfume. Looks down hopelessly at the wrinkled mess of her dress.

"Fucking cotton bullshit," she mutters.

"I don't know how often you'll need to use my computer for all-nighters, but in the future I'll have to insist you take my bed. I'll use the sofa. Gary's harmless but some of his mates aren't."

"Not likely. I sleep with pepper spray under my pillow, and term is over Friday."

"Good thing I didn't wake you myself, then. Do you need to borrow some clothes?"

"I don't know what would be worse. Leaving your flat looking a mess or leaving your flat wearing your clothes."


	4. Chapter 4

She ends up in Sherlock's clothes, because in the long run it's just easier than trying to iron the dress or throw it in the drier (what would she wear in the meantime, anyway? Despite Sherlock's assertions of celibacy, she doesn't want to run around in her knickers, especially if the elusive—though supposedly harmless—Gary should turn up. ) She kind of just wants to burn the dress, it's always such a pain, but it's one of the last nice ones she has so she stuffs it into her bag. He lends her a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans.

"Christ, Sherlock. You're not that fucking tall. How are your legs so long," she says as she turns up the jeans a third time.

"The global average for male height is about 1.72 meters or 5 feet 8 inches. Last I know I measured in at right around 6 feet tall. Assuming that my lifestyle of the past year or so has not affected my growth, I may continue to become taller until I'm 25. So, while I may not be extraordinarily tall I am well above average and do have legs proportionally long for my height. As a woman of slightly less than average height, even though you do have remarkably long legs for your height as well, it would make sense that my jeans would not fit you properly, especially as I bought that particular pair with an inseam long enough to turn up."

"Right," Sally says. "Well, I'm off. I'll return them when I can. And, erm, thank you. For, well, everything."

He picks up his violin in answer, and starts in on some Mozart. She recognizes it as one her sister used to pound out on the piano constantly when she wanted to sound like she was practicing but didn't want to play anything she actually needed to practice.

She sprays herself with CKOne, and instead of smelling like an ashtray (Sherlock lights new cigarettes off of the last one in addition to leaving half smoked ones lying around burning in ashtrays) she smells like lightly citrus scented ashtray. She's only going in to turn in her paper today-she doesn't actually have class-but she'd rather not look like she spent last night on a binger. This professor is already enough of a condescending prat.

She pauses at the door and looks him over. He is looking out the window while playing. It has been weeks since she first met him, and he hasn't cut his dark hair, which was already falling in his eyes that first encounter. His shoulder blades protrude like wings waiting to break through his faded dressing gown. His hands on the strings and the bow are long fingered and beautifully shaped.

Sally considers asking Sherlock to come with her to drop off her paper, and then take a walk (perhaps force him into a barber's chair.) He is very pale and has said he hasn't been out at all since he detoxed. His housekeeper has been bringing him tea, bread and cigarettes when she comes once a week. He was vague last night when she asked when he'd last eaten a proper meal, changing the subject to how you could infer the quality of a restaurant from clues on the takeaway menu.

Sally rejects the idea almost as soon as it is fully formed. There is something lost and seeking in his never resting eyes. There is also something desperate and grasping. It is alarming, especially in someone so outwardly beautiful and charismatic. It pulls at that maternal part of her that wants to heal, and soothe, and repair. He has suppressed one addiction but has redoubled his efforts smoking and is frantic for something else to ease his boredom. She wonders if that laser focus has ever been aimed on a person. If he has ever broken down a person into parts (more so than the surface level with which he summarizes everyone he sees) the same way he dissects things and experiences, studying the individual pieces then putting it all back together (or not, his mantel clock is strewn out all over an end table in the lounge.) She is curious, or she would never have let him sit with her; never have come to his flat (especially not twice.) She knows that she could have either intimidated or flirted her way into the use of a computer in the lab last night, but she came here. She is instinctively aware that he knows this, too.

As she leaves, she decides that she should send his clothes back in the post. She is not interested in injured birds or cage keepers. And she's pretty sure he's both.

By the time she drops off her paper and gets home, she is relieved that she did not invite him along. He would have been exhausting, though at any other time she might have enjoyed his constant commentary on everyone they passed. The last week of exams and papers has caught up with her, and she just wants to curl up on her bed and die for a few hours.

She lives in a subsidized bedsit a mile from campus. Her grants pay for most of her tuition, but no room and board, and this is cheaper than the halls of residence. It also affords her the luxury of not having a roommate. It's basic and dreary, but she really only sleeps here so it doesn't matter. She has one exam to sit on Friday, then a weekend in Yorkshire before the non-stop service drudgery of the summer holidays begins. She kicks off her boots and Sherlock's jeans, but not his shirt (it was buried in drawer so only vaguely smells of an ashtray) collapses into bed with her headphones on, and drifts off to the sounds of her rescued CD. She's only slightly annoyed that she'll now associate this album with him.

It is late afternoon when she wakes up, feeling feverish from the stuffy room and some disjointed disturbing dreams. She opens the window, which freshens the stifling air slightly, then pads to the kitchenette. She is fumbling around making tea, trying to get her fingers to work properly, when she notices that something has been slid under the door.

It is a new CD, still in the cellophane. An import from an artist called Poe. There's a note attached, on heavy white monogrammed stationery. In sprawling handwriting it says:

Sally,

I thought you might enjoy this, based on your appreciation for Miss Morissette. Please accept my apologies for holding your copy of _Definitely Maybe_ for so long. I would also like to extend to you an invitation to accompany me to my brother's wedding on 12 July. It will be an afternoon affair, frightfully dull I'm afraid (as most of these things are.) My mother is insisting I bring someone, and you are the only female in my acquaintance who is remotely suitable. Come if convenient. A car will pick you up at 2:00. Formal attire. I'm assuming you have one or two nice frocks left from your former life. Please make sure it reveals the tattoo on your left shoulder. My mother will adore it.

SH

P.S. If inconvenient, come all the same.


	5. Chapter 5

Sally throws the remains of her sandwich in the bin and heads back to her seat, trying not to spill her coffee as the train moves around a bend. She settles back in her window seat and stretches her legs into the other seat, thankful that the train is mostly empty. It's a very short train ride, but she didn't want to spend it having to chat with a strange old lady or being flirted with by a strange old (or young) man. She just wants to listen to her music and not think about anything.

The CD that Sherlock gave her is excellent, but she doesn't want to think about him so she opts for Pearl Jam. _Vitalogy_. It is moody and weird and it fits her right now. It fits the rain outside and the dimness of the train car. As the opening drum riff of "Last Exit" builds into the guitar riff, she closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind.

But she keeps thinking about the note. The invitation. Whatever it is. It is charming in that same way that he is charming, but also infinitely irritating.

"If inconvenient, come all the same."

Bastard.

She knows that even if she doesn't answer, even if she answers no, that at 2pm on the 12th a car will pull up, carrying an expectant Sherlock.

"Bastard," she says.

An old lady across the aisle glares at her, then looks pointedly at Sally's boots in the seat. Sally digs her heels in and glares back. The old lady looks away first.

The rain has stopped by the time they pull into Leeds. She takes a taxi to a large Tudor home in Roundhay. The house where she grew up, the park practically serving as her front garden. But instead of going through the front gate, she goes down the alley and round the back, to the carriage house. It has been converted into a small cottage. This is where her Gran has lived since the American had stolen her money. Her father wasn't totally heartless, after all. He had offered his mother a place to live even though he'd disapproved of her choices, and had said that Sally would still have his emotional support—just not financial—when he didn't approve of her choices. Too bad the emotional support also came with emotional blackmail and guilt trips. Which is why she's at the cheerful yellow door of the carriage house and not the heavy brown door of her childhood home.

Gran opens the door before Sally can knock. She has been expecting Sally and heard the gate open.

"Darling! Oh Sally dear! Let me get a look at you," she says after hugging her tightly. She is a tiny woman but utterly strong. Her hair is completely white but she still wears it past her shoulders.

"Oh so beautiful still. Oh just wait until your mother sees that hair. You will be going to see them this time, won't you? You know your mother pouts dreadfully and will hardly speak to me after your visits and your father starts talking again about my putting ideas in your head."

"Not sure yet, Gran. Is Mags home this weekend, too?"

"No, darling. Your mother is letting her redecorate her flat as an end of term present so she's staying down one more week to make sure it all goes accordingly."

"Sod it, I'm definitely not going over there then. Even without Mags there, all she'll do is talk about how nice it's going to look, all the while implying that if I'd just come to my senses I could have Liberty upholstery and a Marks and Spencer kitchen. "

"Sarah, kindly watch your language! I may have been a riveter in my day but I'm still a lady, and I expect my granddaughters to treat me like one."

"Sorry, Gran."

"Well, you're just in time for tea. Mrs. McGuinness brought over some shortbread yesterday. She's so bored since I moved out of the neighborhood. The only person left she knows is that awful Mrs. Hampton. You remember her, Sally?"

"Ugh, yes. She always got really tan in the summer then would go on and on about how funny it was she was darker than Mags and me. But Mrs. McGuinness only lives across the park. Surely she visits you fairly often?"

"She's been doing cruises since her husband died. She's done with that now, though, says it doesn't suit her anymore. But I'm being rude. I haven't asked you a thing about yourself. Do you think you got on alright with your classes?"

"Yes, Gran. Fantastic. Actually I do need to talk to you about something. It's not to do with school or money."

"Ah, it'll be a boy, then?"

"Yes, well, no not really. I mean, yes there's a boy but I'm not interested in him like that. But he's invited me to his brother's wedding and I'm not even sure I want to go but if I do I need something to wear."

"Does this boy want to go as a date or as friends? Because if you go he needs to know where you stand on it."

"I know, Gran. And I definitely don't think he means it as a date. He doesn't date and he's, well, he's different than any person I've ever met so I really have no idea why he wants me to go just that I'm the only one who's 'remotely suitable.' Here, just read this." She hands her grandmother the note.

Gran reads it with delight in her big grey eyes.

"Oh, Sally, he is delightfully odd, isn't he? So formal yet not really polite. Is he always like that?"

"Gran I honestly don't know. I've only been around him three times. But yes, all those times, mostly formal but not ever really polite."

"Well, you never could resist a mystery, could you? Always wanting to play cops and robbers with the boys, reading my detective novels after you got bored with Nancy Drew. I still don't know why your parents were so surprised."

Sally smiles, though she is reminded of Sherlock's surmising that she likes danger. That bastard.

"Yes. He's definitely—enigmatic."

"Well, as long as he's not dangerous, I think you should go. It'll be fun for you to get dressed up and go to a party. Quite posh, I'm assuming, from the sound of this note?"

"Yes Gran, I'm sure it'll be as posh as an afternoon wedding can be."

"Ah, I know just the thing, darling. Come along, to the closet we go."

Her grandmother's "closet" takes up the entire second bedroom of the carriage house. Gran is passionate about clothing and has always had a unique sense of style. In addition to her more contemporary clothes, the spare room houses clothes worn by ladies of the family over the last fifty years. Everything has a place and is thoroughly labeled. The oldest dresses are meticulously stored in acid free paper, laid flat in cedar trunks. Gran goes immediately to a trunk labeled "1950s-Party-Formal" and pulls out an exquisite pale blue eyelet New Look dress. She goes to another trunk marked "Crinolines" and extracts a creamy petticoat to go with it.

"Unless you want to scandalise? Then I can pull out the electric blue Betsey Johnson petticoat from the 80s?"

Sally laughs. "Was this yours? You were already a grandmother in the 80s!"

"No, this one belonged to my niece, Hazel. She travelled around even more than your grandfather and I did. You remember her, she brought you all those saris from India. Never had any children, that one, so when she got sick she told me to save her things for you girls."

She lays the petticoats aside and holds the dress up in front of Sally in the mirror.

"Now, this dress. Your grandfather bought this one for me with his first book advance. We were living in New York, and the Dior boutique had just opened. I remember I felt so scandalous, wearing all of that fabric after so many years on rations."

"Gran, I can't. It's too nice. I mean, I don't even know the groom, he's just some government minion, and if he's anything like his brother I'll hate him."

"Sally, I know you well enough to know that you would definitely not be going anywhere, especially not a stranger's wedding, with someone you don't like at least a little. And that 'government minion' may know people who will be important to you later. "

"But it's just so gorgeous. What if I spill wine or food on it?"

"I've created beautiful memories in it, and I'd be a selfish old fool if I kept hoarding it away. Now you'll make some new memories in it. Besides, you'll only drink champagne or seltzer, and you'll have your napkin in your lap. Just be glad this one only has the little cap sleeves. Most of these dresses made it impossible to move your arms up and down. You just had to stand around looking pretty amongst your space aged appliances. Now, on it goes. Must see if we need to take it in. You're skin and bones. I do hope you're wearing a proper bra today, Sally. I cannot abide by those wretched cotton things you insist upon."

"Yes, Gran. I brought the one you gave me last time."

"Good girl."


	6. Chapter 6

She is standing outside of her building at 1:58. At 2:00 a black Mercedes pulls over. She waits for the driver to get out and open the door. Sherlock sits in the back seat on the driver's side. His hair has been trimmed a bit, and he is wearing a suit. New, dark, cashmere, white shirt. A pale blue tie lies folded on the seat next to him. She gets in and glances over at him while she puts on her seatbelt.

He looks healthier. The tops of his cheekbones are slightly pink, and there are freckles scattered across his nose. His cheeks are a bit less hollow, and there are threads of red highlights woven in his curls. His lips actually have color and the shadows under his eyes are more grey than purple.

"Sally Donovan, your grandmother has exquisite taste. I expected the color as it's a good one for your skin tone and the season, but I was not expecting something quite so demure, considering her taste in jackets. The petticoat is a nice touch, though. And my mother will certainly appreciate a French designer."

"You look lovely, too, Freak. Where are we going?"

"Tunbridge Wells," he says. He lights a cigarette. Cracks the window.

After a moment. "Sherlock, why do you know so much about fashion? You're wearing a thousand pounds worth of clothing, and you knew that my jacket was Westwood and that this dress is Dior. But you told me when we met that you don't concern yourself with trivia."

"Clothing is never trivia. People say that the eyes are the window to the soul but I believe that clothing is a closer match. It is the clearest indicator of who people are, of what they want to reveal about themselves and what they want to hide. Hence there is a very large portion of my brain devoted to clothing. I also do enjoy things that are aesthetically pleasing, including nice textures. Your wrap looks quite nice, by the way"

"Oh. Where are we going, exactly?"

He ignores her question and hands her the tie.

"I need a favor. I need you to tie my tie. Full Windsor, please."

"What?"

"I believe you heard me."

"You can't tie a tie? You went to boarding school!"

"Yes and I haven't worn one since. They're completely useless as a fashion accessory, not to mention dangerous. Always a danger of getting it caught in something, catching it on fire, getting strangled with it. Getting toothpaste on it. Anyway, I know all about them but don't wear them myself, and as I can't find the information anywhere it would seem that I binned it."

"You binned it? Isn't it just like riding a bike?"

"Wouldn't know."

"Oh my god. Well what about Gary? Couldn't he have done it?"

"Gary is in Morocco for the summer, besides, I doubt he has the mental acumen left to tie his own shoes. At least that's the only explanation I have for why he wears Birkenstocks year round."

"Right. Well, you're lucky I've had to serve table for the past three years. "

She unhooks her seatbelt and slides closer to him. She unfolds the tie, turns up his collar. As she leans in, she realizes he is so freshly showered that he still smells strongly of soap. Citrus and sandalwood. He also has a tiny nick on his jawline. He shaved in a hurry. Aftershave matches the soap. His curls are still damp around his nape and ears.

"You really don't want to go to this, do you?"

"What?"

"You waited until the last minute to get ready. I know weddings are a pain in the arse, but is it that bad with your brother?"

"You said you know how to do a tie because you're a server. Your father doesn't wear ties?" he asks.

"Of course he does. Why would I have tied them, though? He's perfectly capable of doing it himself. Shit, this is harder doing it on someone else." She leans back a bit and mimes putting a tie on herself. Satisfied she's got it, she leans in again and finishes. She straightens the tie, pats him on the chest and slides back over to her side of the car. They ride in silence for a while. The traffic is start and stop.

"Sherlock, you matched your tie to the color you assumed my dress would be, and you're not arriving early. So, you're not in the wedding party?"

"Would you want me giving a speech at your wedding?"

Laughter bubbles from her and she quickly covers her mouth.

"No, oh god, no. But still—"

"Do shut up, Sally, your attempts at digging into my childhood are boring. It won't work."

There is a full minute of silence.

"Driver," Sally says suddenly, "please drop me at the nearest Tube stop."

"Oh, are we pouting?"

"No, we're not pouting. We are simply not putting up with the person for whom we're doing a favor being an insufferable git before we've even left the city."

"Liam, keep going. We don't want to be late."

"Liam, I believe I asked you to stop. If you don't, I will leap from this car at the next light screaming bloody murder."

"Sally, I only asked you to stop prying."

She turns to him, awkwardly, her seatbelt catching her. "No, you told me to shut up and called me boring and transparent, so sod the fuck off, I'm doing you a bloody favor."

"I did not call you transparent."

"You implied it. Seriously? Do you actually not understand how to speak to people or are you just too lazy to try?"

"Oh that's brilliant coming from someone who considers 'Freak' a term of endearment."

"I have no idea where you got the idea that endearment had anything to do with it. And furthermore-"

Liam clears his throat.

"Aldgate East, Miss, if you are still getting out."

They stare each other down for another ten seconds. Finally Sherlock faces forward.

"Sally, I apologize for my abruptness. This will be a trying day for me and you are right, I requested your presence as a favor so I should not take out my frustrations on you. Please stay in the car. I will make sure that you get a corner slice of cake with lots of frosting even if I have to pry it from my brother's pudgy hands."

"How—oh whatever. Liam, I'll continue to the wedding. I'm sorry for the confusion."

Sherlock smiles. "That first day, at the bakery, when I bought you the fairy cake after the sticky bun, you licked off all the frosting before you ate it."

"I don't know whether to punch you or kiss you right now."

"Common reaction."

She punches him soundly in the arm. Hard enough to leave a bruise.


	7. Chapter 7

They spend most of the drive in silence, though Sally does tell him to stop smoking after his third in a row, saying she doesn't want to smell like a pub when she arrives. He almost tells Liam to pull over so he can smoke a few more once they get out of the city, but time is short, and his mother will not forgive him if they are late for the ceremony.

He had allowed Sally to believe that he had not been asked to be in the wedding party. However, his brother, with his infernal sense of duty, had asked Sherlock to be his best man. And out of Sherlock's skewed sense of duty, he had refused. They were both relieved after those formalities were out of the way, and Mycroft had asked his best mate from university. But it was better to just avoid and obfuscate than allow her to pry. She is not always the most observant person, but she is light years ahead of other people and capable of some impressive intuitive leaps. She will make a fine detective if the years she'll have to slog around undercover as prostitutes and strippers don't render her completely jaded.

He watches her closely as they turn into the long driveway of his childhood home. She looks out the window with interest, but her only expression is a satisfied smirk. She attends to her makeup and hair. She'd eschewed a formal hat for a delicate feathered fascinator.

"Amused?"

"No, I just like to be right."

"Right about what?"

"This is exactly what I expected."

"Enlighten me, please."

"You're really interested? Or do you just want to contradict me?"

"No, I'm really interested." He also wants distraction.

"Okay, well, then, we have to talk about money, which I'm sure you were brought up not to talk about."

"Yes, but it's a stupid rule so go ahead."

"Okay. Well, we went to an independent school, but it was in town. My dad hated boarding school, and my mum was a refugee, so they were always a little psychotic about keeping us close to home, family dinners every night, all that. They've earned their own money; a lot of it, but also my Gran and Grandad were really well off. They'd lived in America during the boom and Grandad wrote some successful novels about the war and my Gran did some painting and illustrating. So we were quite rich compared to others at our school. But I didn't know there was a difference in your kind of wealth and our kind until I got sent to boarding school."

"The upright Sally Donovan, kicked out of the family home and sent to boarding school? This is getting interesting. Thank God the driveway is quite long."

"Yes, well, when I was fifteen my Grandad died, and he left me a little money , which I can't even touch until I'm twenty-five, but he also left me some personal items. One of his typewriters, a few notebooks, and some letters. A few of them were from Hemingway and Kerouac. I kept most of it. But my second cousin Stella was staying with us—she was 18- and convinced me that we needed an adventure. I sold a few of the letters and a notebook and we ran away to the States to follow Pearl Jam on tour. Yeah, I knew they'd come here eventually but I wanted to do it and had been told no, and I was sick to death of just doing what I was supposed to all the time. And I guess if you want to get all psychological about it I'd lost my mind a bit about Grandad's dying. And when we came home, Stella went on to uni with barely a slap on the wrist from her parents, and I was sent to a boarding school in Wales. I was so mad at my dad and in such a strop that I refused to go home for Christmas, so this sweet but really awkward girl invited me home with her. So all of the gawking and slack jawed awe you were probably expecting was spent when I came up her driveway. It was the first of many. I hardly ever went home for holidays."

"So, having indulged in rebellion for the first time, you decided to just keep doing what you want?"

"Yes. They'd changed the terms of my trust when I got back, too, basically dictating where I'd go to school and what I'd study in order to get it. They couldn't touch the inheritance from Grandad, but that's years away. Gran said she'd help out when the time came for me to go to Uni, but then she lost her money."

"Sally, surely it would have occurred to you to just study law like your father wanted, then go into the police force after. A law degree would have served you just as well, wouldn't it?"

"Obviously you haven't inferred much about my father. He never touched his own trust fund, outside of paying for school. When the payments came, he donated what was left after school fees to charity. He resents my grandparents so much. Wanted to make money of his own from the start. He spent the first eight years of his life being shuttled around from New York to Los Angeles, then got sent to boarding school in what was practically a foreign country. He also chose to spend some holidays at school or with friends, and got dragged around from ashram to commune on other holidays until he was old enough to stay home by himself. I definitely get my stubbornness from him. If I'd deceived him about my career, he'd have sued me for every last pence he'd ever spent on my education, probably starting in primary school, because he'd consider that I'd defrauded him and extorted the money on false pretenses."

"Hmm. I think I should like to meet him. "

"I might take you up on that."

"And your mum?"

"A smiling face hiding a lot of pain. She won't talk about anything before she came to England. She left everything behind in Rwanda. She was always after me to straighten my hair and tidy my room. My sister has always been more cooperative when it comes to both. Beautiful home, beautiful garden, beautiful daughters. I think I just perplex her."

"Yet you dote on your Gran, and she on you. Interesting."

"I know I probably shouldn't. She helped make him that way. Sometimes extraordinary people make shitty parents and breed the worst arseholes "

"Yes, as you will find out when you meet my mother and brother."

The car pulls up in front of Sherlock's childhood home. He smiles and raises an eyebrow.

"Shall we?"


	8. Chapter 8

Though Sally has visited a handful of impressive ancestral homes, she is still impressed by the Holmes estate as she gets a closer look. It is impeccably kept. More than one of her school friends had lived in massive houses where the family only occupied and kept up a few essential rooms, leaving the rest shut up and sometimes even gone to ruin. She'd always wondered at the pride or folly that would go into keeping something you could no longer take care of just so others couldn't get their hands on it. That people would rather let something wither away than let it go.

Most of the girls she'd spent holidays with had lived in houses more like this one, though. Even if only a few rooms were regularly used, they were all furnished (though many were shrouded in white sheets most of the time) and the house, grounds and all the inner workings were feverishly maintained. A different sort of pride or folly, then, like bailing water with a thimble.

She pictures the house on a quiet day, with no swarm of cars and people, and imagines that it would not look much different than it did one or even two hundred years ago.

She cannot imagine for one second what it would be like to be a child here.

Sherlock sighs expansively when he spots the valets in full livery. He allows one to open his door, but insists on opening Sally's. She has a bit of trouble with her heels on the gravel, so he offers his arm.

"Ceremony's not at a church, then?" Sally asks as they go up the front steps.

"Religion is not really our area," he says.

They pass a middle aged couple on the way inside, and Sherlock aims a sparkling smile at them along with a cheerful greeting. As soon as they are out of sight, the smile and the light in his eyes shut off instantaneously. He does this several more times as they make their way through the entry hall. He can't avoid conversation with a few elderly aunts and uncles. He is sweet and accommodating with them, and introduces Sally to them all as his friend. Sally is both fascinated and appalled at his behavior. Attending family functions always involves a bit of acting, but most people get into character from the beginning and don't drop the act until leaving, aside from those brief moments when you escape to the loo to silently scream at whatever distant relative had decided to mock your life choices or your hair or clothes. But Sherlock only maintains the pretense when he is actually engaging with people. And when he drops the pretense, it is not a slow fade. It is a cut to black, end of scene. It makes her wary about every turning her back on him.

He leads her into dim, relatively quiet, relentlessly Victorian parlor, where a beautiful woman in her fifties is speaking rapidly to a young woman in a black suit. Sally guesses that the young woman is the wedding planner, and that the older woman must be Sherlock's mum. The genuine smile and warm kiss on the cheek that Sherlock bestows upon her prove this to be true.

"Hello, Mummy. This is Miss Sarah Donovan. Miss Donovan, my mother, Violet Holmes."

"Please call me Sally."

"So lovely to meet you, Sally."

Mrs. Holmes extends a delicate hand and Sally accepts it. She's wearing little jewelry; only her wedding band (where is Mr. Holmes? Sherlock hadn't mentioned his father at all) a diamond ring, and small diamond studs in her ears. She is dressed in an elegant grey silk sheath. She is very thin, like her son, but quite short, and her mouth has the same prominent Cupid's bow. Sally is most struck, though, by Mrs. Holmes' eyes. They are the same incredible blue-grey of Sherlock's eyes, but where his expression is guarded bordering on irritated at best, his mother's eyes are placid and innocent. She wonders if this is how Sherlock's eyes looked as a child. Then she notices that Mrs. Holmes' pupils are pin pricks, despite the gloominess of the room (Victorian down to the heavy drapes and fear of the sun.) Painkillers? Common in older people. Psychiatric drugs? Plain, ordinary heroin (like mother, like son?) Before she can draw a final conclusion, or even say a word more, though, Sherlock notices that she has noticed and whisks her away.

"You two can get to know each other later, Mummy. We'll just go find our seats now."

He leads her by the hand through the house. It's hard for her to keep up with his long strides. Finally, as they enter a solarium that overlooks the garden, she jerks her hand free and stops.

"Jesus. I'm not a fucking child. You don't have to lead me."

He whirls around to face her, stands uncomfortably close, stepping in to speak directly into her ear. To anyone outside glancing into the room, they would look like a couple sharing an intimate moment. He even puts his arm around her waist for good measure.

"Don't pry," he says.

She leans back, hands flat on his chest, so she can look into his eyes.

"What the fuck. I said four words to her," she says incredulously.

"You know that's not what I mean. You were looking at her. Inferring things. "

A frantic bridesmaid rushes into the room, making a bee line for the door to the garden. She is followed a few seconds later by a disheveled groomsman. When he looks them over, Sally smiles shyly, as though they have been caught in flagrante delicto. She breaks free of Sherlock the second the door shuts behind the groomsman.

"You're such a fucking hypocrite. You look at everyone and have them broken down into little pieces before you even know their names. I'm sure you could tell me everything that happened between that bridesmaid and groomsmen in the last two hours down to the color of her knickers"

"That was my mother in there, not a cheating groomsman or a criminal in a lineup."

"Well, I may not be as brilliant at it but I can't turn it on or off any more than you can. And I don't even care. She seems sweet. I'll probably never see her again after today. Let's just drop it. Obviously those two wouldn't have risked being seen like that if the ceremony weren't about to start so let's go."

The ceremony is to take place on the terrace directly behind the house. Beyond the terrace, the lawn slopes down to a pond, where there are pavilion like tents set up all around, a flurry of wait staff putting final touches on place settings. Looking at the number of tables, as well as the number of chairs set up for the ceremony, Sally guesses a maximum of one hundred guests. Surprising in relation to the grandeur of the house.

"My brother has a flair for the dramatic, but he is also a private person. Guest list includes family, closest mates from uni, a few key people from his work whom he cannot offend if he wants to achieve his desired career trajectory."

"Stop doing that."

"What?"

"Responding to questions I haven't asked."

"Sally, you have to know by now that one can ask a question without saying a word."

Despite his mother's insistence that they sit in the front row, Sherlock chooses seats in the back. He wants to be able to observe everything. He tells her stories about a few of the guests, some from previous knowledge, others from deduction. He is trying to make her laugh, which mostly works, but she is still disturbed. She realizes that this is the first time she has seen him in a real social setting, and it's disconcerting how deliberately hot and cold he runs.

She is distracted from brooding about this, however, when Sherlock's brother appears beside the officiate. She had expected an older, more robust version of Sherlock, but this man barely looks as though he could be related to Sherlock. He is tall, with aristocratic features, but he also has straight, gingery hair and is quite chubby.

Sherlock smirks at the look on Sally's face.

"Yes, full siblings, I'm afraid," Sherlock whispers.

"I said, stop that!" she whispers back fiercely. An lady in a massive hat covered in fake birds turns to glare at Sally. Sally glares back.

"He looks like our father. At least in the face," Sherlock continues. "The rest, well, we all get bored sometimes."


	9. Chapter 9

After the ceremony (interminable, dull, insipid) he gets out of joining the receiving line by telling his mother that he doesn't want to leave Sally all alone. He then escapes into a grove of trees well away from the house for a cigarette and quiet. The grove is situated on a slope, so he can observe all of the action below. The chairs from the ceremony being whisked away, everyone dutifully shaking hands and wishing the new couple well. Sally is looking around for him, about to go back into the house (she'll think he's in the library or the music room) when his mother snares her and introduces her to Mycroft and Jane. Mycroft doesn't say much to Sally, but he knows that he is being unfailingly civil and that he will file away a great deal of information about her. Jane smiles her usual guileless smile, the smile of a girl who can't quite believe her luck (she comes from a titled family with no money) and has no idea what she's actually in for (a husband who is already married to his work.)

He supposes he should greet his brother and new sister in law, as well as save Sally from his lecherous great uncle who is tottering over to chat her up.

He lights another cigarette.

The wedding party disappears for photographs and Sally is left to fend for herself against the dubious charms of his Uncle Maitland.

He is almost finished with his third cigarette when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Congratulations, Mycroft," Sherlock says.

"Thank you, Sherlock, " Mycroft says. "Do you have another cigarette?"

"Always, though I thought you'd quit again." Sherlock says, drawing out a second pack from his jacket pocket. "Did you sneak all the way around through the orchard in order to try to sneak up on me?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Certainly not," he says stiffly. "I did not want to draw attention to myself or you. Plus I wanted to take a look at the bee hives. Your suggestions to Atkins seem to be working splendidly."

"Of course. And they weren't suggestions."

The brothers smoke in silence for several minutes. Sally comes into view again, followed closely by their great uncle. She grabs a champagne flute from a passing waiter and feigns interest in whatever the old man is saying. She finishes the champagne rapidly and grabs another.

"She's quite lovely, Sherlock. Clever, too. Nice family. Only a mild scandal with that unfortunate business with her poor grandmother's money. Interesting story about the mother- "

"I see you did your research."

"I wanted to be prepared for whatever it is you'd unleash on us, but it looks as though you've subverted our expectations quite nicely. But do you really think that the possibility of a girlfriend will keep Mummy from insisting you go back to school as soon as she can find you a place?"

One of Mycroft's school mates, a bastard called Meads, appears at Sally's side with another glass of champagne. Henry Meads had once flushed Sherlock's brine shrimp down the toilet. He'd been studying how different pH levels in water affected their life cycle and had been set back several days by the prank. Sherlock had been seven and Henry fourteen. Sherlock watches with a flicker of annoyance, but doesn't have the chance to determine if it's due to Henry's past actions or his current ones, as the word "girlfriend" distracts him from his musings. He scoffs at the word.

"Is that really the best you can come up with? I simply decided that if I had to be subjected to someone's company for hours because of the arbitrary rule that you have to bring a date to a wedding, then it may as well be someone whom I find moderately interesting. I also did not want to endure an entire evening of The Look from Mummy, so I decided against hiring someone off the streets. Besides, it's your day, Mycroft. And I'd never want to deprive a blushing groom of all the attention he deserves."

"Well, you certainly didn't feel that way when I graduated from university."

"Still on that are we? I was a boy. "

"The fellows at the club still bring it up! I'm to the point where I'm considering joining another. 'How's the rash, Mycroft? That brother of yours still up to his old tricks, Mycroft?' We are adults and it's unseemly."

"And you're a glutton. Really, if you hadn't eaten so many of those tarts perhaps your eyes wouldn't have swollen shut."

"You could have killed me!"

"If that had been my intention, we wouldn't be here today. I imagine I'd be just getting out of Cookham Wood and you'd finally be at your goal weight." Sherlock finishes his cigarette and deftly field strips it, depositing the remains in the cellophane from his pack along with the other butts. He considers having another but decides against it.

"How is she, then?"

"Mummy? She is ever the same. All of her activities remain exactly the same."

"I see. Shouldn't you be getting back to your bride and the photographer before they send out a search party?"

"They'll just be finishing up with Jane's family now. Mummy would appreciate it if you'd join us."

"You're right, Mycroft. Well, it was nice catching up. Good afternoon."

He leaves his brother standing under the trees and goes to join his date.


	10. Chapter 10

When Sally sees Sherlock sauntering back to the party, hands in pockets, smiling wryly, she thinks that he looks incredible. As much as he likes to dress the part of the shabby student in the city, in this setting, he is completely natural in a suit.

She also wants to kill him. She opens her mouth to tell him off but he cuts her off.

"Hello, Donovan. You look a bit put off."

"I just spent the last half hour listening to your uncle attempt to turn every sentence in our conversation into a double entendre. That actually takes a bit of talent. He tries to come off like he's senile and harmless but I'd say he's as sharp as you are and just enjoys being able to say whatever the hell he wants."

He smiles and offers her his arm.

"You're right, Donovan, his faculties are as sharp as a man a third his age. He is also truly harmless. Now, looks like your chatterboxing has made us almost late for dinner. I can assure you that the menu will consist of all of the delicacies that my brother adores and will deny himself for the next six months. "

When they arrive at the tent, Sherlock roars with laughter when he sees their table assignment. They are seated with six of Sherlock's young girl cousins, ranging in age from seven to fourteen. The fourteen year old, a regal beauty with Sherlock's coloring, looks at him with a mixture of disdain and nearly concealed lust. The seven year old, a dimply golden haired child, barrages him with questions from the moment he sits down while the other four girls ignore him in favor of discussing their own dream weddings.

"Sherlock, how old are you?"

"I am twenty, Annabelle. I will be twenty one in January."

"Why are you sitting at our table? This is the baby table."

The haughty teenager sniffs and glares at the younger girl.

"It's true, Nora. We're all under sixteen so we're at the baby table. And we're all girls, too, so they should have at least put Sherlock with Alo and Chas, right?"

Nora just glares at her sister and turns her attention to slowly ripping her place card to shreds. Occasionally, she peeks at Sherlock from under her lashes.

"Annabelle, to answer your question, I believe that this is what Mycroft considers to be a joke."

"Why? Does he think we're so horrible to sit with?"

"Perhaps. But I can assure you that you are not."

"My Mummy said that you were sent down from school again. She said she was a bit relieved since Chas is going to Oxford in the fall and she was afraid you'd influence him. I thought that was weird because Chas doesn't like you."

"And how do you know that Chas doesn't like me? Did he tell you?"

"Oh, no. Chas doesn't tell me much. He just gets really quiet whenever anyone is talking about you, whether it's good or bad. His face gets all red and thundery when Dad says you're so clever. Chas is clever, too. But he's ordinary clever. "

"Well, Bells, your mother is right. I was sent down. But she needn't have worried about my influencing dear Chas as I would have avoided him as much as he would have avoided me. She needs to worry more about his friend Sam, whose older brother introduced me to some things that would be far more precarious to Chas' academic career."

Alarmed at the direction the conversation is taking, Sally interjects.

"Annabelle, is it? Hello, I'm Sally Donovan."

Annabelle turns to Sally.

"Hi Sally. Sherlock is my dad's first cousin, which makes me his first cousin once removed. I'm interested in genetics. My sister over there is Nora. She wants to be Prime Minister someday. She and I don't look much alike but she and Sherlock do, and they both kind of look like his mum, who is my Grandad's little sister. Mycroft doesn't look like any of us because he looks like his dad who isn't related to us by blood, except for Sherlock and Mycroft. So I guess that's kind of like how Nora and I don't look alike. Are you going to marry Sherlock?"

Sally's mouth drops open. She had been trying to diagram the family tree in her head and was caught off guard by the change of subject.

"No, dear. We're, er, friends and besides, I'm not out of school and if there's one piece of advice I can give you it is that you shouldn't get married before you've finished with school."

Annabelle's eyes widen as she stores this information.

Sally glances at Sherlock, who at least has the decency to try to hide his amusement by staring intently at his glass of wine. He takes a massive gulp before pulling Annabelle's attention from Sally.

"Annabelle, did you get a chance to look at the roses? There are some lovely hybrids in the green house. One variety is pink and purple. If you are staying the night, you should ask my mother to show you tomorrow."

The main course arrives and they discover they have been given the child's menu, an upscale rendering of fish fingers and chips. There may be truffle oil on the chips, and walnut crust on the fish, but it is definitely aimed at a child's palate. Sherlock laughs and raises his glass to his brother, who returns the gesture with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shares most of his dinner with Annabelle while they draw Punnett squares in Sherlock's notebook and discuss blue eyed cats. He goes through an entire bottle of wine by himself. Sally has had enough champagne to soften all the edges, so she nurses a single glass. She has not seen Sherlock tipsy, only fraying at the edges from cravings and the end result of withdrawal. His cheeks are flushed and his posture loose. His smiles are genuine. Of course, that could have to do with the fact that he is thoroughly enjoying his conversation with his young cousin. Sally tries to engage Nora in conversation, but the girl just glares. The other girls have moved on from gown to bridesmaid dresses. They turn to her once to ask her opinion on gown styles, but turn away again in horror when she tells them that she hasn't thought about it much but would probably wear her Gran's wedding dress. So she lets Anabelle grill her about her background and shares with her which traits she had inherited from her mother and which from her father. Once the plates are cleared away, Mycroft's best man rises to begin the speeches.

"Hell," Sherlock mutters. "This will be boring and we won't be able to talk. Sally, come with me. I want to show you something. Bells, please excuse us. If I don't see you before I leave, I shall hopefully see you at Christmas."

They duck out of the tent and into the liquid light of the golden hour.


	11. Chapter 11

He takes her far from the cultivated part of the garden, down a path in the woods to a crumbling summerhouse. It has six walls of the same stone as the main house, though more roughly hewn. Five walls feature arched windows and the other an arched doorway. Ivy covers much of it, and most of the shingles on the steeply pitched roof are fading. In the late summer evening light, with the sounds of the party barely audible through the trees, she feels like she's entered another world. It is a balmy day, and the wine and champagne, coupled with the hike from the house has made her drowsy and content. If she had a blanket, she would gladly lie down on the cool stone floor and doze. Instead, She gestures for him to hand over his jacket, which he has been carrying. She lays it over the nearest sill before hopping up to sit in the window. It is not exactly lady like, but she is beyond caring.

"Sherlock, did you play here?"

"Yes, almost every day, until I went to school. Then only on holidays. It was a pirate ship, a school, a church, a frontier log cabin, the Alamo, military fortress, space ship, anything you could ever imagine and some things you probably can't."

"It would have been my Cair Paravel," she says.

He smiles. "That, too. And Camelot."

"Isengard?" she asks.

"Oh, most definitely."

He pulls out a cigarette.

"May I, since we're not in closed quarters anymore?"

"It's your castle."

"It was technically my car."

"I'll have one, too."

There is a trace of a smirk as he takes out a second cigarette.

"What?"

"Had my suspicions."

"Only when I've been drinking," Sally says primly. He lights her cigarette for her.

He leans languidly against the wall opposite her. His movements are slow and drowsy. He lights his own cigarette and inhales, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before blowing a few contemplative smoke rings.

"Ha, of course you can," Sally mutters.

"I can also juggle, though I'm afraid that's the extent of my party tricks."

"When and why did you learn to juggle?"

"When I was eight. Mycroft was learning how for a play at school and I decided I'd master it before he did."  
"And did you?"

He squints at her, trying to figure out if she is serious.

"Of course. Mycroft may be slightly—and I mean very slightly—more clever, but I have always had the edge when it comes to reflex and physical prowess."

Sally can't help but giggle. "You sound like you're describing D&D characters. Who rolled the higher charisma score?"

"Would you have willingly followed Mycroft into the woods?" he deadpans.

She laughs more heartily than she means to, and Sherlock gives her an injured look.

"I take it you were under the impression I was some wan and sickly child? Forever in bed with some ailment or another, alone with my books and my chemistry set? I was quite good at cricket, at least the sporting aspects of it, but not so great when it came to team work. So my energies were channeled into judo and boxing. A little fencing. "

"No tennis? Golf?"

He wrinkles his nose and sniffs. "Not much of a fan of the kit."

She pictures him in golf clothes, which sends her into another fit of giggles.

"I played field hockey," she says when she catches her breath.

"Any good?"

"Spent a lot of time in the penalty corner. I could be a bit overzealous, especially if one of my team mates was attacked."

"Lady Justice in a pleated skirt and knee socks." He laughs, and she is struck by how young and vulnerable he looks. She wonders if his scowling seriousness is not the real mask.

"Do you bring all your dates here?" she asks lightly.

"Dates," he scoffs.

"Right. You don't date. Why?"

"Why don't you?"

"Because I don't have time."

"Same here."

"But you don't have a job or school. What in hell could be keeping you busy?"

He drops his cigarette and grinds it beneath his shoe, then crosses to her. He plucks her cigarette from her fingers and takes the last drag before stubbing it out as well.

"My work is up here," he says, pointing to his temple. "Always, constantly, it never stops. Well, it did when I would shoot up but that's over."

He rests his hands on her knees, and then jerks them back up as though he's been shocked. His eyes flick to her face before he slowly lowers them again. Palms flat, he slides his hands halfway up her thighs, then down again to her knees. He steps in closer to her, and she wonders why on earth she hadn't sat with her ankles together like her Gran was always telling her to.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" he says, moving his hands to her waist."

"What are you doing?"

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure," he says slowly. "Would you like me to stop?"

"Not quite yet."

He moves his hands up her waist, then runs them down her arms and back up over her shoulders to her neck. There are curls at her nape that have escaped her updo, and he twists one around his index finger before letting it spring loose. He cups her face in his hands and strokes her cheeks gently with his thumbs, then runs his hands over her shoulders and down her arms again, resting them on her knees. She has been holding her breath and exhales slowly. Looks at him and tentatively runs her hands through his hair, starting at the temples. His hair is cool and so soft it is almost intangible. It is like plunging her hands into cool water. He sighs and closes his eyes. Runs his hands up her thighs and around to the small of her back, pulls her closer. She rests her hands on his shoulders and leans her forehead against his. It is so quiet she can hear the rough spots on his fingers catching on the fabric of her dress.

"Have you figured it out yet?" she whispers. She hasn't even kissed him, yet she knows that, despite all of the tulle of her petticoat between them, that it would only take a few furtive movements for everything to change. She needs only reach for his belt.

"I think," he says as he traces her collarbone with his right thumb, "that I am trying to build immunity."

Her whole body goes still. There is nothing but his slightly ragged breathing and the sudden sound of her pulse in her ears as blood rushes to her head.

"What?"

His hand moves up and behind her neck and he caresses the spot right behind her ear with his thumb.

"Like a vaccine. Give yourself a small dose of the pathogen and your body creates antibodies to fight it off. "

She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him away slightly.

"Are you calling me a disease?"

"Of course not," he snaps. He drags his hands through his hair and looks at her helplessly.

"Just, this feeling, this. Wanting you. Like this."

Her hands drop to her sides and rest on the sill.

He can't look at her now. His head is bowed and the fading sunlight is glinting off of those curls. He looks beautiful and forlorn.

Then, as abruptly as he'd first put his hands on her, he straightens up and takes a step back. His face is placid and cool and he has no trouble meeting her gaze.

"Thank you, Sally, that's all I required. We can go back now. If you could just hand me my jacket." He holds his hand out.

Sally slides down from the window sill, takes his suit jacket, holds it just out of his reach and lets it fall to the ground.

"Fuck off, Freak."

"Excuse me?"

"Fucking immunity? Are you serious?

"Why are you always so angry?"

"Why aren't you _ever_ angry? Or sad, or happy or just fucking content? What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you really believe that it's all about preserving that mind of yours? The first time we met you went on and on about how you have to keep away from distractions or that great mind of yours will rot, but all you ever do with it is sit around your fucking flat thinking of ways to avoid being human. I don't care how many experiments you do on your own body or body parts or your flatmate or what. You're just wasting all your energy running from something you can never get away from and nothing comes of it."

"Come talk to me in ten years when your brilliant mind has been stifled by politics and protocol and paper work, Sally."

"Oh fuck _off_," she says, and pushes past him to leave. He grabs her by her forearm. She turns instantly and slaps him. It is a gesture born of instinct, and she is as shocked as he is at first. She looks at her hand, the palm of it smarting and red, and at the angry red mark forming on Sherlock's jaw. When the shock wears off, she squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye.

"Pleasure and pain, Sherlock. That's really all life is. Fucking deal with it."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock lights up even before her retreating back has disappeared into the trees. He has ten left in this pack and has the desire to smoke them all, one after another, then go back down, finagle a pack off of his uncle Maitland and smoke twenty more.

Empirically, he knows that he has fucked up. He knows this from her reaction, and from the throbbing in his jaw. He just doesn't understand why. She had asked him what he was doing and he had answered truthfully.

He had known he was in trouble the moment she got into the car. Of course he had noticed how fit she was the first day he met her. If he is honest with himself, that was the second reason he decided to talk with her, the first being the subject she was studying. He'd noticed how lovely her hair smelled (vanilla and amber) and the particular way her body chemistry made the very popular fragrance she wore unique to her. His goal that day had been distraction, but he hadn't wanted to be distracted from one vice by diving into another, so he had ignored it. And he had ignored it the night she'd come over to write her paper, because he had started to recognize that she might, possibly, maybe, one day, hopefully, be a friend, and his longing for friendship, something so elusive and transitory for him, outweighed any desire for a romantic entanglement.

When she had climbed into the car, he had been unprepared for the onslaught of her freshly washed and scented and made up beauty. She was beautiful when she was exhausted and bedraggled, but this was something altogether overwhelming. The car's backseat seemed suddenly smaller, and he could not look in her direction without regarding something he wanted to touch. Her cheek, her hair, her clavicle, the delicate protrusion of the pisiform bone in her wrists. He studiously avoided the swell of her breasts and the exaggerated curve of her waist in the heavily boned bodice. He had never imagined that a sound such as the rustle of a petticoat as she leaned across the seat to tie his tie could make him desperate to know what kind of undergarments she was wearing underneath.

By the time they had arrived at his home, he had thought he had himself under control. The ride had been pleasant-after a rocky start- and there were plenty of distractions in the form of relatives to be greeted. Looking back now, he is certain that it all would have been fine if he hadn't pulled her so close to talk to her in the solarium. He'd nearly come undone. Thank God for the cheating groomsman and his bridesmaid for providing the perfect distraction.

Of course, it also hadn't helped that he had plunged head first into the first bottle of wine set before them on the table. He'd started with one glass to stop his hands shaking, and it had led to several more, until he'd drunk the whole thing, minus Sally's one glass. Sitting at a table full of children had meant there was no one else to share with and slow him down. (Though he was pretty certain Nora was on her way to developing a riotous drinking problem, she was yet circumspect enough to not indulge in the open.)

He had honestly just wanted to get away from the party and show her his old haunt, but everything had gone warm and fuzzy and he had somehow convinced himself that it would be alright to give into temptation, just a bit. Maybe kiss her a little, nothing more. Just to get it out of his system, rid their relationship of that particular bit of mystery and move on.

"Stupid!" he says as he finishes his last cigarette. Misstep after misstep and he's driven her away. Probably for the best, as he's proven time and time again to be a fantastically awful friend.

He's feeling more than a little bit light headed as he meanders down the path back to the house. He takes his time. He knows she'll have left. There is no reason for her to stay. He tries to avoid eye contact with anyone as he makes his way through the house. He has nothing left in him for social niceties tonight, at least not where his family is concerned. He'll appease his mother by coming to have tea soon. Mycroft can bugger off.

His mother catches him just as he reaches for the front door.

"Sherlock! The state of you. Have you been fighting?"

He looks at himself in one of the massive mirrors that flank the entryway. He does look a sight. His hair standing practically on end, tie askew, and an impressive bruise developing on his jaw."

"Oh no, Mummy dear. Just an unfortunate incident in the summer house. Got a bit worked up. Fumbled around a bit. I'm perfectly fine." Telling the truth in the vaguest terms possible.

She reaches up to try to smooth down his hair. When that proves impossible she straightens his tie.

"I do wish you'd stay a bit longer. We need to discuss your future, darling child. Sheffield is looking very promising, and they have gorgeous labs. They just want to interview you."

"Yes mother, but not tonight. I'll ring you, we'll have tea and discuss my illustrious future. But right now I really must go." He kisses her on the cheek and is out the door before she can reply.

He is certain that Sally has taken the car so he goes to the head valet in order to procure a new one.

"Mr. Holmes, your car is still here. Miss Donovan left with Mr. Meads half an hour ago. "

"Meads? You're sure?" Sherlock seethes. That bloody bastard with the year-round tan.

"Yes, sir. His car is quite unmistakable."

"Right.. Thank you. Please tell Liam to pull round."


	13. Chapter 13

Sally drags herself up the stairs the next morning. Henry had still been passed out when she'd woken up, and she'd left as quickly and quietly as possible. She knew she'd looked a tip on the tube and on the walk from her stop. The dress was rumpled and she carried her petticoat with her because it had just been too much trouble to deal with putting it on. She'd finally just wrapped it around her like a cape because she knew she couldn't look much crazier, and she was cold, having forgotten her wrap (cashmere, Gran's) in Sherlock's car.

Sherlock. That fucking prat. It was so stupid to have ever gotten in that car with him, to have ever gone to his flat, to have ever let him sit with her that first day. But he really had been so fit, despite the obvious drug use, and once he'd started talking, he had been so fascinating. He breaks people down into their parts based mostly on things he observes, but she wants to get inside his head and find out how the hell it works. Mostly because she wanted to know how the he makes those giant intuitive leaps. How he makes it all fit together.

Now, Henry Meads had not been fascinating at all. She had known exactly what sort he was the first time he'd chatted her up, when she had been waiting for Sherlock to come back from God knew where.

New money, flashed it about a lot, made friends because he could get you into the right clubs and get good drugs and concert tickets. The type who thinks he's progressive because he likes to fuck ethnic girls, but then goes around telling his friends in demeaning terms all the ways Indian girls or black girls or Asian girls are different from white girls.

She'd had a lot of champagne before dinner, plus a glass of wine. She'd had at least two more glasses of champagne while she fumed, trying to decide if she should just take the car they'd come in or find another way home. Henry had grabbed a bottle on their way out. She didn't remember how much of that bottle she'd actually drunk. They'd started snogging almost as soon as they got in the car. He'd had a rather tacky stretch limousine; the type with long banquettes and a partition between the driver and the passengers. They were the only two occupying it. Things had progressed quickly (he had taken her knickers while they were still in the car and put them in his pocket) but not before Henry had gotten in a few digs at Sherlock.

"So you came with old Mycroft's little brother, yeah? Creepy little bastard. Used to lurk around all the time, spying around corners, popping up to tell us we were idiots, telling us things he thought he knew about us. Little bastard. Couldn't believe he'd managed to pull a beautiful babe like you. What'd he do, promise you help with your schoolwork?"

Sally stopped listening. While she was sure that she agreed with Sherlock that this guy was an idiot and knew she should tell him she could handle her own homework, she just didn't care. She needed to get it out of her system. She didn't really care who with. He was blandly handsome and had a fantastic body. Honed in a gym, not from any particular sport.

She felt fortunate that she is always able to separate her mind and her body during sex. Whether it was a stranger or someone she cared about, she preferred getting off without getting mentally involved. She liked boundaries, knowing where someone ended and she began. A million things would go through her head, and sometimes she'd even found herself writing conclusions to essays in those moments before she was pulled into total oblivion. She enjoyed sex immensely physically and was incredibly giving, so a lot of guys didn't notice. Though her one serious boyfriend had told her when they'd broken up that he felt like she just used him to masturbate. She hadn't been able to honestly refute it and still sometimes thinks about it in those moments between sleeping and waking.

Henry had been surprisingly good with his hands and tongue. A lot of guys like him were total crap and didn't bother at all with foreplay. When he'd gone down on her, she'd thought about how she would pay next month's rent, about how she could have made money if she'd worked that night instead of thinking she could have any sort of real fun with Sherlock Holmes. Oh god, Sherlock's hands on her body, those curls under her hands. The way he smelled like smoke and sandalwood and bergamot. Fuck, no. But it had been too late. As that boring sod had made her come in rolling waves, she had only thought about Sherlock's hands and his eyes and his mouth, all over her body.

She lets herself into her flat and briefly thinks about a shower and tea.

No. Bed.

Then she spots her wrap lying on the futon. Folded neatly. It is either an apology or a goodbye.

A hot wave of anger washes over her at Sherlock's absolute lack of boundaries. (Had he talked his way in or just picked the lock?) But it is replaced quickly by a massive wave of nausea and exhaustion. She cannot care. This just means she won't have to contact him to get it back.

She manages to slip her grandmother's dress off. She leaves it in a heap on the floor. Well, she guesses it's definitely hers now. Garden parties for Gran, fuck fests for Sally. She takes off her bra (she never did find her knickers) and slides naked between her cool sheets, willing the room to stop spinning. She is asleep within minutes.

She wakes up to a chilly, gloomy afternoon. Spends a good fifteen minutes dry heaving into the toilet before she can function. Hot shower, bathrobe, Paracetamol, tea and toast, trash telly. Snippets of her dreams come back to her. A tea party in a ruined castle, with a dark haired, grey eyed boy plying her with sweeties and cake, then stealing her soul when she's busy looking at the constellations he draws in the sky.


	14. Chapter 14

On a stifling Friday morning in early August, Sally is crouched on the floor, digging in the cracks of her one armchair for spare change. She is completely out of clean clothing, and can't afford to do laundry (she usually manages every three weeks or so) because she already spent all of her change jar on getting Gran's dress dry cleaned. It hangs in her closet, pristine, while she's wearing a two day shirt.

Wednesday had been pay day, and she'd had a few quid left after paying her rent. She'd planned on spending today in the launderette catching up on some true crime novels while her clothes spun, but last night the restaurant owner had dropped the bomb that he had decided on a whim to head to Majorca for ten days because he was thinking about introducing tapas on the menu and wanted to do some research.

"Business is always slow in August anyhow, enjoy your vacation kids!" he'd said.

There was a lot of grumbling from the staff when he'd left the room.

"Fucking fantastic for him!" she'd complained to a coworker as they were leaving.

She doesn't usually buy groceries when she is working because she can live on her staff meal and end of night leftovers. But now she's out of work for ten days. No pay cheque next week and no food. So she spent her last bit of money on beans and bread, and figures she can scan the classifieds for some cash jobs. But she really needs clean clothes if she's going to get any sort of babysitting or even house keeping work.

She'd tried handwashing some things in the sink in the kitchenette, but it's so humid that nothing got dry. So now she's scrounging for at least enough change to run a load in a dryer.

She can't ask Gran for any money. Obviously can't ask her parents. She thinks about asking her sister but that is too humiliating a thought to humor for more than a second. Most of her coworkers are in a similar predicament to her, and her friends are all at home or on holiday. Except—no.

She groans when she remembers that, in Sherlock's flat, sitting mostly unused (he and Gary both send their laundry out) is a washer dryer. It even has its own little closet, that stupid flat is so big.

She weighs the humiliation of calling her sister for money (and inevitably having her parents find out, because Mags has always felt it her duty to report on Sally's doings) against the humiliation of asking a guy whom she'd slapped in the face the last time she saw him, if she could do her laundry at his flat.

She chooses the latter, but knows that she can't ring him, or email him. She can't ask him at all, she just has to go over there and do it or she will lose her nerve.

"It's okay anyway, he's probably binned the whole incident in order to make room for something else," she tells herself as she starts shoving what she can into her canvas laundry bag. She has enough fare left on her TravelCard to get her there and back. She opts for the bus to avoid escalators and stairs. She's also certain that with the heat and humidity, the Underground probably resembles the ninth circle of hell.

Sherlock's front windows are open and as she approaches his building, she knows he is home because she hears a violin. But it is not his usual classical music.

"Is that. Is that the fucking Spice Girls?" she mutters to herself as she pushes open the front door. As she climbs the stairs, she is certain. Bleeding song has been everywhere for the past month (she is sure she might murder the next person who calls her Scary Spice) and now he's playing it on his fiddle.

The door is cracked so she doesn't bother knocking. Sherlock is standing in the lounge, wearing nothing but a pair of navy corduroy trousers, sweaty and wild eyed , playing "Wannabe" with frantic vigor. A pale girl with dyed black hair and a nose ring sits on the sofa, laughing and pulverizing a pill with a tiny mallet.

"Ah, Sally Donovan!" Sherlock cries when he spots her. "How lovely of you to pop round, it's been ages! I was beginning to think there'd been a reconciliation and you'd gone home to mums and dad."

"Some of us have to work." She looks at the activity on the coffee table (the girl is sorting the crushed pill into lines with a credit card) so that she doesn't look too closely at him. She hadn't been prepared to see quite so much of him, and looking at his skin brings back flashes of the meanderings her mind has taken in unguarded moments over the last few weeks, thoughts of what could have happened if he'd just kept his bloody mouth shut.

"Who's this, then?" says the girl, after Hoovering up the entire pill with a small glass tube.

"Cheryl, Sally. In addition to being my own personal Scary Spice, Sally uses me for things in my flat like my computer, and apparently, laundry. Sally, Cheryl. I use Cheryl for lab access and she still thinks I'll shag her any day now. So Cheryl, if you figure out a way to use Sally we'll all have a nice little narcissistic love triangle!"

"Right," Sally says. "So I'll just take care of this then." She turns toward the laundry closet. It's either that, or punch him, and she doesn't think it'd be fair to use his washer dryer if she hits him a second time. He follows her. She starts throwing her clothes into the washer (looking inside first ; he's told her that he sometimes uses the washer for experiments) thankful that most of her clothes are black so that she doesn't have to do a lot of loads. He tries to turn her to face him but she shakes him off.

"Stop that. If I want to look at you or talk to you I'll do it."

He steps back. She feels his eyes on her like an electric jolt that runs from her nape down her spine. He doesn't say anything but she swears she can feel him thinking.

She turns the machine on and faces him. He is very thin again, though he is surprisingly toned. His trousers barely stay on his hips. Her glance bounces quickly off of his hip bones and navel and up to his face. His lips are pale to the point of blending in with his skin, and his eyes- .

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Do you realize that one of your pupils is dilated more than the other?"

He smiles like child at this revelation and rushes to the bathroom. He is examining his eyes in the mirror when she catches up with him.

"Holy hell, have you ever seen anything like this?"

"Only in autopsy photos."

He brushes past her and goes back to the lounge. He kneels on the floor in front of Cheryl, who is watching a talk show and drawing furiously in a sketch book.

"Doctor, look at this. At my eyes. Have you seen anything like this before?"

She squints at him and her eyes widen.

"Holy shit, do you have a flashlight? Sally, is it? Find a flashlight."

Sally fetches her keys from her bag. She has a pen light on her key chain because the lights are always blown out in her corridor. Cheryl takes it and shines it in Sherlock's right eye, then his left. She sighs and relaxes a bit.

"It's not blown, it dilates in the light. So I'd say it's probably because you're cranked to the gills and haven't slept in days. But, er, you might still want to go to A & E to get it checked after you've had a chance to come down a bit." She goes back to her sketchbook. Sally catches a glimpse of the drawing. Sherlock as a satyr, playing a fiddle while dryads dance around him. Interesting, and well executed, but not her biggest concern right now.

"Are you serious?" Sally asks her. Cheryl ignores her. Sherlock reaches for his violin but Sally stops him, pushes him toward his room and, presumably, the rest of his clothes.

"You're going to A&E now. "

"My doctor says it's fine."

She lowers the volume of her voice, but her tone is steely. "Your 'doctor' is as much a physician as I am a police officer, and isn't exactly sober. Do you want to have an aneurysm and lose fifty IQ points because you're too stubborn to see a real doctor? Come on. Put a shirt and shoes on. You have cab fare I hope?"

He weighs his options for a moment, then nods.

"Cheryl," Sherlock says as Sally rushes him out the door. "Stay here if you'd like. Gary will be back from Morocco sometime today and I'm sure he's smuggled in something lovely."


	15. Chapter 15

Four hours later, after several blood tests, a CT scan and every intern on site getting a look at Sherlock's pupils, Sally and Sherlock are sitting on a bench in a hallway at University College Hospital. Sherlock has an IV in his arm, connected to a bright yellow bag of saline and various nutrients. He is wearing a hospital gown, as they have confiscated his clothing as a way of inducing him to stay until the bag is finished. He told them that he'd leave his clothes behind and walk home, but then he'd nearly lost consciousness. Sally had threatened to alert his mother if he didn't comply. He had agreed on the condition that he keep possession of his wallet and shoes. So now he sits, though he is restless and seething.

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe I let you talk me into coming here. Cheryl was right, my brain is perfectly fine."

"Sherlock, you were chronically dehydrated and suffering from vitamin deficiencies. Were you planning on eating or drinking anything soon? Jesus."

"Hmm, I wonder if Cheryl could get me some of these to use at home," he muses, poking at the IV bag. "In the long run it'd be much more convenient than eating."

"Sherlock, if you keep talking like that I'll have them take you to the psych ward."

"I'm certain I could manage to have you committed long before they would ever commit me."

She has a sinking feeling he is right.

"You're lucky they didn't call the police after those blood tests."

"Why would they? I can assure you the only things in my system are the four amphetamines that make up the medication Adderall, which I have a prescription for."

"Oh, so you have ADD now?"

"Doesn't every university student with a decent sized bank account?"

"You're not a student."

"Oh, but I pass for one quite well. "

"So, do you snort them like she was?"

"God, no. I wouldn't want to damage my sense of smell. I take the pills like a good boy. When I did cocaine, I injected it."

"Do you have a prescription for opiates, too? "

"Opiates in pill form are dull. Besides, I'm obviously having fun with stimulants at the moment. Do keep up."

She stops her line of questioning for a few minutes, then takes it up again, more gently.

"Was your mum high on opiates when I met her?"

"My, you are determined to have that story aren't you? Been saving that question up for a few weeks, have you?"

"Look, I know it's none of my business, but I just want to know about people, what makes them tick. It's important for me."

"Well, Sally, you do know that people you interview—witnesses and suspects alike—are not always going to open up to you and answer the questions you want, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Well, we seem to have a bit of time," he says, looking up at the half empty IV bag. "So, you tell me. You've spent enough time with me on different occasions, you've met my mother and my brother, seen my childhood home. That should be more than enough to crack the enigma of Mummy Holmes."

She looks at him, not sure if he is serious. He has an open, expectant look on his face, as though he is waiting for a table at a restaurant.

"Don't worry about hurting my feelings, Sally. It's become increasingly hard to do so, and you're only going to be telling me things I already know."

"Right," she says, and searches for what she can remember of the wedding. Some of it has gone fuzzy, since she got so drunk, but she finds the things she purposefully committed to memory in a jewelry box in the spare room of her Memory Cottage. Sherlock had laughed at her when she had told him that was what she would call her memory place. She'd retorted that not everyone suffers from delusions of grandeur.

"Your mother is elegant, dresses exquisitely but simply, nothing ostentatious. Old money. Very old. There is a significant age difference between you and your brother, which could mean that you were a happy accident. Though your mother is also very young to have a twenty seven year old child (no signs of cosmetic surgery and minimal makeup, and she looks to be in her mid to late forties) which could mean that he was a surprise as well. The house is her ancestral home—"

"Very good Sally, I'd like to know how you came to that last. Did someone tell you or did you guess?"

"Both you and Annabelle said that Mycroft looks like your father. You look like your mother, and several of the old portraits in the house were of people that resemble the two of you. "

"Very nice observations." He stops fiddling with his wallet and looks at her with interest. "Go on."

"Your mother has an interest in botany far beyond the usual English passion for gardening. You mentioned hybrid roses and your uncle Maitland mentioned her grafting apple trees herself, before making some joke about the size of my apples. "

"Excellent," he chuckles.

She looks at him sharply. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"No. Just complimenting your observational skills as well as my uncle's. Now go on."

"Your father is dead." She puts her hand over her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be. How do you know that?"

"Because even if there had been an extremely acrimonious divorce, which there wasn't, since your mother still wears her wedding rings, your father would have still made an appearance at his first son's wedding."

"So, you've got most of the major pieces. How does it fit?"

And this is where it falls apart for her. This is where it sometimes falls apart for her when she is doing school work as well, or when she was younger and reading mystery novels. She sees all the pieces, sometimes things that others have missed, but she can't always see how they all fit together.

She shakes her head and looks at her hands.

"Well, you got further than most. So, for that, I'll reward you with the whole dull story. Ready?"

"Are you sure?"

He nods and stares at his shoes (black Chuck Taylors that have seen many better days) and rattles off his family history in a fast paced monotone.

"Violet Chalon Mycroft Holmes, descended on one side from a long line of country squires and on the other from fallen French aristocrats who fled to England during the Revolution. Was well on her way to a brilliant career in genetics, reading biology at Oxford in the late 60s, when she found herself impregnated by a dashing government official ten years her senior. Married the man and had the baby; it was, after all, a pretty good match as he came from an exceptional family himself, all with the understanding that she could continue her studies once the child was sent to school.

Father Holmes was away much of the time, maneuvering things here and there, mostly in southeast Asia but sometimes in Northern Ireland. Though he apparently did manage to come home long enough in the spring of 1975 to impregnate my mother again. (Mycroft was set to go to boarding school the following year.) She had a difficult pregnancy and delivery which left both of us nearly dead and her unable to have more children. (Which was just as well for all concerned.) It was a slow and painful recovery for her, both mentally and physically. There was no more talk of continuing her studies. If you want to know the reason I hold her in such high regard it is that, if she ever has harbored any resentment toward me she has never expressed it. She did, however, develop an addiction to her pain medication, though she has always been a mostly functioning addict. She even went through a fairly successful course of rehab, staying sober for almost a year. Until right after the Falklands when I deduced some shocking things regarding my father and his very pretty, very young personal assistant. I told Mycroft about it (he was home for summer holidays) and he told me that he had come to the same conclusion but that I mustn't tell. I was a willful and independent child who couldn't stand to lie to my mother even on the pretense of protecting her, so I told her anyway. She did not divorce my father, but she did make him leave her home and made sure he had no access to any of her money. He had never shown much interest in either of us boys, and she didn't tell him how she found out, but I remember his looking at me very closely when they sat us down to tell us about the separation. As he was leaving he pulled me close and said "You're just like her. So clever but too much heart. It'll ruin you, too."

I only saw him twice after that, then he stayed away for a very long time, then one day when I was twelve, I got a call from my mother at school, telling me he had died. She hasn't been sober for more than a few weeks at a time since I told her about my father's affair. And her maiden name still gets her entree into the brightest corners of society and my father's name gets her entree into some more shadowy regions, which means it's only a matter of time before she procures me a place at another school. I seem to be her only hope for redemption, as my brother has seen fit to follow in my father's footsteps, at least where career is concerned. It remains to be seen how he handles his marriage. So there you have it. "

"But why do you want to hurt her?"

He looks at her, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You showed up to your brother's wedding, but did everything you could to avoid doing anything else that she wanted of you. She sacrificed so much for you."

"I never asked her to! She could have given me to a nanny and gone back to school. Hell, she could have done the same with Mycroft. She got sentimental over a couple of babies and let it derail her life. I could win a Nobel Prize and it wouldn't bring her glory back. "

The bag is empty. As soon as he notices, he takes out the IV himself, leaving the port in, and marches toward the exit.

"Sherlock, you can't just leave that in! And you're bloody half naked."

"I'm taking a cab, and Cheryl can take it out. You can come with me or not. But I am leaving now."

It takes fifty quid to convince the cabbie that Sherlock isn't an escaped mental patient.


	16. Chapter 16

When they arrive at Sherlock's flat, the sky is threatening a downpour, not just the misty rain of the past few days. A breeze has kicked up and has already blown away some of the heat. The lounge is dim and empty, the remains of Indian takeaway litter the coffee table. There is also quite a bit of spliff and rolling papers scattered about. Gary's door is closed and Massive Attack's "Heat Miser" is blaring from his room. Underneath the beat and the heavy breathing on the track is the sound of squeaky bed springs and an occasional feminine moan. Sherlock and Sally lock eyes and burst out laughing at the same time.

"Well, that happened even faster than I'd hoped." Sherlock says, going into his room and pulling on pyjama bottoms and a t shirt. With a baleful look, he wads up the hospital gown and throws it in the bin.

Sally goes to switch her laundry over to the dry cycle.

"What's the deal with Gary, anyway?"

"We knew each other at school. He wasn't completely awful. Just sort of gentle and out of it all the time. Brilliant at physics when he can be bothered. Hardly home and his trust takes care of all of his bills so he's basically the perfect flat mate."

In the pause between Massive Attack ending and Portishead beginning, Cheryl lets out a loud "Oh yeah!"

"Is this his seduction mix?" Sally asks.

"No, hers," Sherlock says. "Tricky comes after Portishead, then the Sneaker Pimps. Peaks with a bit of Prodigy. 'Break and Enter' I believe. Her idea of a joke I suppose."

"She's. Well, interesting. Where did you find-Jesus did you pull that needle out yourself?"

He's in the kitchen, lit cigarette in his mouth, holding his arm over the sink and pressing a towel to his the inside of his forearm.

"Well, my doctor is otherwise occupied. What else would you have me do?"

"Erm, you could have let a nurse take it out at the hospital, perhaps?"

"We'd still be there waiting for someone now. Will you please apply that plaster when I take the towel off?"

She does as he asks, and as she smooths the plaster down on his forearm, she is struck with how intimate the contact is, when it should be clinical. She can see the veins under his still too pale skin, and the scar, just a divot, in the crook of his arm where he used to inject himself. Fascinated, she brushes her thumb across it and his arm breaks out in gooseflesh. Despite his hair being so dark, his arm hair is nearly blonde. He pulls his arm back and leans back against the counter, creating just enough distance to let the sudden heat between them dissipate.

"Tea?" he asks and starts opening cupboard doors. "It takes two hours for that thing to decently dry a load of clothes. We've got biscuits, no bread. Some plums. I'm just going to go read in my room. Got a new book on early crime scene photography. You can, er…" He trails off as the sounds from Gary's bedroom once again reach fever pitch.

"Well," he continues. "If he did indeed bring back as much E as he could shove up his bum, that may be going on for quite a while. My room doesn't share a wall with his so it'd be quieter in mine. I've also got a new book on the Green River Killer if you didn't bring anything, and a comfortable chair purloined from my father's old study or if you'd prefer—"

"Sounds lovely," she says. She is amused and a bit charmed by how flustered he is. He looks exhausted and unguarded.

They make a tray of tea and biscuits and plums and hide out in Sherlock's room. She loads the disc changer with the Beatles, volume just high enough to drown out any possible amorous sounds coming from the other bedroom. The chair, which had been covered in laundry the last time she'd been in his room, causes her to smile sadly when she sees it.

"Problem?" he asks.

"Nothing. It's just that my Grandad had this same chair, two of them, in fact. In his library, facing each other across a long coffee table. My sister and I used to sit in them and have staring contests. "

"Oh," he says, and gives her one of the books from his night stand and sits on the bed with the other one. She realizes that he doesn't know what to say because he can't relate. He probably took his father's chair because it is comfortable (her grandfather's Le Corbusier chairs had been delightful for napping in) and has great lines. There would have been no sentimental reason at all. She ignores the chair for now, since he has placed the tea tray on the bed, and sits opposite him. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"You don't exactly have an end table over there."

"That's what the stack of books is for."

"Classy."

She bites into one of the plums. It is cold from the fridge, with the perfect ratio of sweetness to tartness.

"Shit, these are amazing!"

"My mother sent them up yesterday. They're from her orchard. She'll be sending jam soon. I practically live off of it in autumn"

"You eat it straight from the jar, don't you?"

In answer, he bites into a plum. He finishes it in a few ravenous bites, then lights a cigarette.

Sally polishes off two plums and half of the biscuits and carries her tea to the chair. She sets the cup and saucer on his stack of books (an assortment of chemistry, biology, true crime and biographies) and flops down sideways, her feet dangling over the arm. The chair enfolds her in a familiar way, and smells vaguely of pipe tobacco.

"Did your father smoke a pipe, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Pipe smoke smells differently from cigarette smoke."

"Yes I know. Now do be quiet. "

She studies the jacket of the book he's given her. It's written by a detective who had also worked the Ted Bundy case. He had attempted to use information from his interviews with Bundy to help catch the Green River Killer. It doesn't take her long to become engrossed, and they both settle in with the sounds of the rain and the street through the opened window, the flipping of pages, and the occasional flicking of Sherlock's lighter.

"Do you know the Black Dahlia murder?" Sherlock says suddenly.

"Yes. Hollywood in the forties. Unsolved."

"Have you seen the crime scene photos?"

"Just the autopsy, just her face," she says.

"Have a look."

He's sitting up, leaned against the headboard with the book resting on his bent knees. She sits next to him with her legs curled under her and he angles the book so she can see it properly. It's practically a coffee table book, so the photos are quite large and detailed. She's seen a lot of crime scene photos, but somehow the older ones affect her more than contemporary ones, because she can't get past the idea of those times being somehow gentler, even though she knows that the past was as full of horrors as the present. She's always glad that the older photos are black and white. Sherlock's eyes scan the photos quickly, taking in everything.

"They ran these photos in the paper, you know. They used to do that. We were more enured to death, I suppose. Inundated with death photography from the American Civil War on. More likely to have seen death in your home or your neighborhood.

"Did you go to your father's funeral?" she asks.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "I suppose I had to, didn't I?" He turns the page. "Ah, certainly you've seen these. The Ripper photos. "

"Of course. You know, my father thought it was a good idea to take us to the London Dungeon when we were still in primary school? I think he still blames himself for my wanting to be a detective. Do you have a suspect?"

"For the Ripper or the Dahlia?"

"Both, either."

"The Dahlia is frustrating. Too sensationalized, too many false leads, newspapers falling all over themselves for the scoop. Might be able to do something with just the police reports and the photos, interview any of the key players who were still alive. With the Ripper, I have a good idea but so does everyone and it seems most people who study it are more intent on debunking other theories than developing their own. Boring. " he says, and yawns. "Three days."

"What?"

"You were going to ask how long it's been since I slept. It's been three days. I will be sleeping tonight, which is why I haven't taken anything else despite the fact that I can hardly string two coherent thoughts together."

"Should I go?"

"No. You still need to finish your laundry."

"Oh, right!" she goes to the door and peeks out cautiously to make sure there are no naked people seeking munchies in the lounge or kitchen. The only sound coming from Gary's room is The Doors. Must be Gary's afterglow mix.

Certain that the coast is clear, she heads to the washer dryer. Everything is gloriously dry, and she is trying to decide whether to fold or just throw them back in the bag when she hears Sherlock from the kitchen.

"Better to fold them now, Sally. They'll wrinkle terribly."

"Stop doing that!" She calls out. She shoves her remaining dirty clothes into the machine and starts it, then gathers up the clean ones. There's a small corner of the kitchen table that is clear of the detritus of bachelorhood and science, and she folds quickly while Sherlock cleans the tea things. She notices he takes the same care with the china as he does with his violin. He finishes his task before she does and wanders back to his room. When she follows, he is standing at the window, looking out onto the street. He looks like an ordinary boy this way-all elbows and shoulder blades and unkempt hair- except that underneath the lazy pose he is strung taut, fairly vibrating with tamped down energy. She has the urge to embrace him, followed quickly by the urge to turn and run and never come back. She is frozen in his doorway, indecisive, when, still facing the window, he speaks.

"You can stay, so you don't have to go out in this. Pointless to get everything wet after you've just washed it. You can have my bed."

Sally steps into the room. "Sherlock, you don't—"

"Yes, I do." With that, he takes a pillow from the bed and a quilt from his dresser and goes to the lounge, shutting the door behind him. Sally looks at the door, then at the bed, which, from her brief stint just sitting on it, seems sinfully, deliciously luxurious, especially compared to her IKEA frame and mattress. She supposes that this is definitely an apology for his behavior at the wedding. She strips down to her t shirt and dives in. It's been too long since she's experienced a down duvet. She isn't sleepy yet, so she continues reading about the Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer. She is just getting drowsy when there's a knock at the door.

"Yes?" she says.

The door opens and Sherlock steps in.

"Sally, this is in no way meant to be any sort of sexual invitation or come on, but my mind is racing just a bit and if you wouldn't mind I'd just like to talk. You don't have to reply, in fact it's better if you don't. There are just some things I need to sort out out loud."

She pats the other side of the bed in reply, and he joins her, sitting on top of the duvet, reclining against the headboard, legs straight out. He steeples his hands beneath his chin and stares into the middle distance. She rolls over and turns out the lamp as he begins to talk.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock awakens with a start. Knows he is alone without looking around. Daylight floods the room. Golden. Morning or afternoon? Afternoon. Body: mild headache, slightly queasy, muscle aches, no erection. Thirsty.

He goes out into the flat. Gary is dozing on the sofa and Cheryl is sitting at the kitchen table, one foot propped in her chair, wearing one of Gary's tie dyes and smoking a spliff the size of a fountain pen. She offers it to him and he shakes his head. No sign of Sally. He looks toward the bathroom door. Open.

"She left," she says. "Hours ago. We had a nice talk first, though."

This was definitely not the most fortunate of occurrences, though he shouldn't be surprised. He goes into the loo. Wonders how the hell he could possibly need to piss if he was dehydrated yesterday.

"Manage to scare her away, then?" he calls from the bathroom. He tries to keep his voice casual with a slightly mocking undertone.

"I think you'll manage that all on your own," she says. He laughs, a short exhalation through his nose. He washes his hands, goes back into the kitchen, and starts making coffee.

"Did you get any sleep?" He asks, not because he cares, but because he is always curious about how drugs affect other people.

"A little," she says. "Not feeling the Adderall much anymore, but the E's still there. Hope my serotonin level doesn't fall off too quickly. Don't want to be sobbing on the bus."

"Oh, I'm sure Gary will spring for a taxi for you." She shoots him a mocking glare and lights a cigarette off of her spliff, passes it to him.

"Have you ever tried E?" she asks.

"No. I don't think that would be a wise experiment." He leans against the worktop and inhales. He immediately feels his head begin to clear.

"You're probably right," she says. "They used to call it Empathy when it first hit the streets. Not really your thing."

"Dull," he says and looks in the fridge. The plums are all gone. The bastards.

"You had it wrong, you know," Cheryl says.

"Oh? About what?"

"I'm not still expecting you to shag me. I gave up on that ages ago, before you started ringing me again. I can be really stupid about blokes but I'm not that stupid."

"I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted. And you never had to pretend you were interested in me. Even from the first. And yes, you're right fit and I really did want to get in your pants at first, but that's not why I helped you, then or now. "

"Why did you?"

"Because you're a right weirdo and I'll always help out other weirdoes."

He looks at her. Her hair is a mess and her eye makeup is smeary. Eyes bloodshot. Her lips are swollen and beard burned. He has never been remotely sexually attracted to her, but for an instant, with the marks of another man all over her, he feels a vague territorial stirring. He sets it aside to examine later, why someone he rejected should seem so appealing once she's out of reach.

"If you just wanted to help, why did you stop coming 'round?"

"Well, rejection still hurts, Sherlock. And it's still embarrassing."

"Oh." He sits opposite her with his coffee. Stares at it for a full minute before adding sugar.

"If you didn't talk about me, what did you talk about?"

"Oh of course we talked about you, dummy. Not the whole time, but we did. Of course at first I wanted to know how you met, and also wanted to know if you'd shagged, because I'd never in a million years have imagined I'd see a girl or anyone coming out of your room in the morning. But she said you just talked and you were still talking when she fell asleep. So you basically, like, had this really beautiful girl in your bed and you talked her to sleep, Sherlock. "

"I wasn't trying to-seduce her. I needed to think aloud. Besides, she can hardly stand me."

Cheryl tries not to laugh and chokes on the smoke she is holding in. When she can breathe again, she shakes her head.

"Seriously, why the hell is it that the cleverest people are the most stupid? Don't look at me like that. Of course she likes you."

"Did she tell you that?"

"No," she sighs. "Don't get me wrong I'm not saying she fancies you, exactly, and I do think that she probably likes you in spite of herself-something I can completely understand-but do you think you'd have ever seen her again if she didn't like you, just a little, no matter that she was completely out of clean knickers and totally broke?"

"No—"

"But Sherlock, you've got to be careful. I think that, and you can chalk this up to the spliff or whatever, but just be careful with her. I like her. She's a little bit of a weirdo, too, though she'd never own up to it. She's got to be to not have washed her hands of you already. And I wouldn't be worried about her, because I think she can take care of herself, except that you like her, too. Now just shut up and hear me out. I'm not saying that you fancy her, either. Exactly. It's just that, sometimes, people on the outside, can kind of see it, when two people are circling each other, feeling each other out, and I only saw you together for a few minutes and I saw it. And you sure as hell never cared enough about my well being to let me stay over. But I just think that there's something in you that can't do anything by halves, once you decide that it's worth your time, and I haven't known you long but I've seen what can happen when you put your mind to doing something. It's, like, one thousand percent devotion, yeah? Like the times I've let you into the lab on a Friday night and had to drag you out, half raving mad on Sunday night. And as much as people say that's what they want, that devotion,it's really, really not, all the time. You know? And also, well, on the other hand you also have this tendency to just forget about something once you've figured it out. And that's really not good, either."

He looks her over again. Her eyelids are heavy and she looks sleepy and subdued. She always gets philosophical when she smokes. Sometimes it's amusing, especially when she gets talking about the meaning of life, but this is irritating.

"Glad to see your psychology courses haven't gone to waste, Doctor," he says. "But please don't worry about me or the state of my-heart."

Cheryl laughs softly and shakes her head. "Right, fine. So, what do you have on for the day?"

He squints and considers. "Shower, shave, convince you to go out for groceries, possibly sleep for four more hours or so, determine the chemical makeup and purity of the MDMA you and Gary ingested. Why?"

"Well, you were right that I have done quite a bit for you, getting you lab access and all. So you owe me. And I figure that since I don't really have use for your prick anymore, I could probably make use of your massive brain."

"You have my attention."


	18. Chapter 18

"Dearest, I haven't caught you at a bad time have I? You sound out of breath." Sally's Gran says into the phone.

"No, Gran. I'm just deep cleaning. Have some unexpected time off."

Sally had been in the middle of scrubbing her base boards when the phone had rung. Despite the hard work she'd been strangely content, with the windows thrown open and Matthew Sweet blasting from her small stereo. She turned it down so that she could hear her grandmother better.

"Oh, that's perfect, then! Because I was going to ask if you'd come up. I need a bit of help."

"Is everything alright?" Sally says, a jolt of fear hitting her stomach.

"Oh yes, dear. It's just that Mrs. McGuiness, well, turns out the reason she stopped all those vacations is that she's completely broke, too! Lost everything, the dear thing. She won't give any details, just says it was a bad investment. Anyhow, she's not got anyone left so she's moving in here, at least for now. So I've got to clear out the second bedroom at least a bit. That shop that's been hounding me for years is going to buy a lot of my things, but I wanted you to take what you want before I do."

"Oh, Gran, you can't sell all of those gorgeous dresses! Just ask dad for some room in the attic?"

"Well, what good are they doing me? Like I said when you borrowed the Dior, I'm being greedy if I just keep them. And I'll be able to help you a little with what I get from them. But I'll need you to help me sort and box as well as make sure she gives me a fair price."

"When would you need me?"

"Take an early train tomorrow, dear. No rush. I'll call and book it. Would the 8 o'clock be alright?"

"Yes, Gran. Thank you. It will be nice to get away."

"See you tomorrow, then, love."

The phone rings again almost immediately after Sally hangs it up.

"Sally, your phone was engaged for several minutes. I've been trying to reach you."

"Yes, Sherlock. Other people do phone me now and again. What do you need?"

"Did you ever meet the man who made off with your grandmother's money?"

That was one of the last things she would have expected him to ask.

"Very briefly. Why?"

"Would you recognize him if you saw a photo of him or if you saw him again?"

"I suppose so. He was handsome in that American fraternity movie kind of way. Sherlock what the hell are you on about?"

"Does your grandmother have any photographs of him?"

"Sherlock, I'm not answering another question until you answer mine. Why do you need to know?"

An exasperated sigh comes down the line and she can picture him dragging his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Cheryl's great aunt has a new suitor, a handsome young American. Cheryl is suspicious as her aunt is quite wealthy and not quite the older babe I suspect your Gran is. She's also nervous because the wealthy aunt is generously providing Cheryl with her upkeep while she's in school. "

"And you think it could be the same man?"

"It's a common scam, but it's worth looking into. A connection would certainly make things a lot more interesting."

"Sherlock, it could be even more interesting! Gran's old neighbor just lost all of her money mysteriously, too. She won't give any details, though."

"Excellent!" He is absolutely gleeful. "Still could be a coincidence, but this is definitely becoming more interesting. Can you find out more from your grandmother?"

"Yes, I'm going up to see her tomorrow. I can talk to Mrs. McGuiness, too."

"Fantastic. I have to go to a family dinner with Cheryl tomorrow evening, posing as her date. She wants me to scope him out because, as she says, I'm good at 'reading people.' We're also going to try to get him in a nice family photo. I don't suppose you have access to email at your Gran's?"

Sally laughs. "No. My father has service but I can't access my school account from there."

"You don't have Webmail?" he asks in the same tone he might use if she had told him she kills puppies for fun.

"Sherlock, I use email for school. That's it. I'll ring you Monday if I find out anything interesting. I'll probably be back in the city by Wednesday."

"I'll come to you if it's urgent."

"You'll come to Leeds. "

"Of course. I may need to speak to your Gran and Mrs. McGuiness myself."

"Oh."

"Problem?"

"No, it's just. That's a bit odd but if it will help out Cheryl or Gran that's fine."

"You don't care about helping Mrs. McGuiness? You left her out."

"No! She's wonderful. Of course I care."

"Right. I'll speak to you on Monday. What number can I reach you at if I need you?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"I'll figure it out anyway."

"It's not listed."

"A trifle. Talk to you soon." He hangs up.

As Sally puts down the phone, she's a bit disoriented, like she's accidentally gotten off the tube at the wrong stop. But, she's always felt that getting lost leads to the best adventures, so she shrugs and turns up the stereo before going to grab her suitcase.


	19. Chapter 19

"First, he's not American."

"What?" Cheryl says.

He hasn't said a word since they came to sit in the garden after dinner and now the long summer day is finally giving over to twilight as he smokes and Cheryl sips brandy. At first he had been waiting for Cheryl's aunt, Mrs. Wendell, and her young boyfriend, an alarmingly robust and handsome man calling himself Robert Allen, to wander out of earshot. Mrs. Wendell is a retired professor—now author- specializing in the history of medicine. The garden of her country cottage (a cottage by 18th century estate standards, meaning it was the size of a good sized modern family home) features all the plants one would find in a typical sixteenth century midwife's medicinal garden. It was Allen's first visit to Mrs. Wendell's country home, and she was showing off the admittedly impressive array of flowers and herbs excitedly, stopping at every specimen. Sherlock would actually have been interested in the lecture, but Allen was barely concealing his boredom behind a blindingly white smile.

Sherlock had soon become lost in his own mind, and had forgotten that Cheryl was there until her response (he hadn't realized he'd been talking aloud) jolted him from his reverie.

"'Robert Allen' is no more American than you are."

"Yeah?"

"I admit he puts on a good show. Orthodontics, teeth bleaching, and a good tan can go a long way in transforming good English farmer stock into a corn fed Midwestern boy, but his table manners gave him away."

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Americans aren't all boorish you know."

"That's not what I mean. Did you not notice that he held his fork in his left hand and his knife in his right?"

"So, that's what we all do."

"Exactly. _We_ meaning Europeans. Americans do the opposite. Well, they hold their fork in the right hand (unless they are left handed) and only use the knife when cutting their meat or spreading copious amounts of butter on things, in which case they switch up and then switch back. All unnecessarily complicated and inefficient. "

"You don't think he could have just picked it up from being here?"

"No. He'd have to have deliberately set out to change an ingrained habit. Besides, he doesn't exhibit any other such affectations and in fact seems desperate to not blend in. He revels in his American-ness. Practically bleeds red, white and blue. Then there's the accent."

"He sounds like a Yank to me."

"On the surface, yes. But it's muddled. Like when Americans try to affect an English accent but don't settle on a specific region or dialect. His accent has markers of the Midwest, the South and even New England all mixed up together. I imagine he has spent a bit of time in the States, but he's not from there."

Cheryl looks nervously in the direction that his aunt and Robert Allen had gone.

"Don't worry. She's in no physical danger. And her money's in no danger, yet. He's got to gain her complete trust before he makes his move."

"But why go to the trouble of pretending to be American?"

"Besides being a good fit for his looks, it gives him an air of the exotic without having to master another language. The Midwest farm boy persona lends some innocence and trustworthiness to the character. It also means extra steps to tracking him down, since anyone who went looking would start out on the wrong continent. Too bad he didn't take the time to thoroughly master his disguise."

"I never would have noticed any of that, and I've met him more than once."

"Obviously, or you wouldn't have needed my help."

"So what's his plan, then?"

"He won't actually steal her money. Well, technically he won't. She'll give it to him, willingly, to help with some sort of investment, and then he'll disappear with it. It's a fairly common scheme. It's what happened to Sally's grandmother, and I'm almost certain that our Mr. Allen is connected to that."

"But can't the police do anything?"

"Usually the victims are too embarrassed to go to the police, and if they do, they're told it's a civil matter since the money was given willingly, and needs to be sorted out in civil court."

"So why didn't you try to catch him out on it? Talk to him about, I don't know, American football or Dave Matthews Band or something?"

He sighs deeply, looks at her and blinks slowly.

"What?"

"What would that have accomplished? I already know he's not American; I have no need to prove it publicly at the moment. Letting him know that I suspect he's not who he claims is the last thing I want to do."

"Well, what are you going to do, then?"

"You've brought your camera and spoke about your love of photography just as I told you to, which sets the stage for us to take some photos of the couple in the garden tomorrow. He won't be able to refuse without seeming suspicious. When we return to London we get the photos developed and take one to Scotland Yard along with his alias and fax another copy to Sally in Leeds so she can show it to her grandmother and Mrs. McGuinness. I do wish she hadn't insisted upon our staying the night and that you hadn't so readily agreed or we could have taken care of it all this evening."

"Since my brother decided at the last minute that he wouldn't be staying another night, she probably just wants someone else in the house so it all looks proper. And now I definitely don't want her alone with him, no matter if you think he's dangerous or not."

Sherlock sniffs. "Everyone in separate bedrooms and doors opening and closing in the night, I suppose?"

"Something like that. You certainly made a good show of acting put out when she showed us our separate rooms. Anyway, with the photos, why are we taking one to Scotland Yard. You said that the police can't do anything, and they definitely can't if he hasn't done anything yet."

He looks at her again and sighs. "To think, Cheryl, that yours is actually one of the better minds in England. It's fascinating that this country lurches along even as well as it does."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Okay," he says, getting up and going into the house. He only means to see if there is any chocolate pie leftover from dinner but enjoys making her think he may actually leave.

"Very funny," Cheryl says. She follows him into the kitchen. "But you can't leave unless you plan on learning to drive in five minutes."

He considers taking the challenge but decides against it. There are two slices of pie left. He really should think about learning to drive at some point, however. Cheryl takes the pie from him, correctly predicting that he is on the verge of grabbing a fork and digging in. She puts the kettle on, then plates the slices on two saucers which she sets on the kitchen table.

"You didn't eat a thing at dinner, just pushed your food around like my old roommate when she wanted us to believe she was actually eating."

"You of all people should know how much energy the body uses to digest. I needed to be alert to observe. Now there's nothing more I can do until tomorrow, and Mr. Allen looks like just the type to scarf down both of these pieces of pie in the dead of night."


	20. Chapter 20

All four bedrooms of the cottage are upstairs, in a row off of a long corridor. Sherlock finds it amusing that Mrs. Wendell had put Cheryl and him at opposite ends. He is also certain that there is a door between Mrs. Wendell's room and the one she gave Mr. Allen. He fills his mind with a lot of noise as he walks past the middle rooms, most assuredly not wanting to hear any sound that might be emitting from either one. There is a sliver of light creeping from under Cheryl's door. He knocks as faintly as possible and opens it at her hesitant "Who's there?"

"It's me," he says, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. She is sitting in bed, reading a graphic novel , the covers pulled over her bent knees.

"What are you doing?" She has removed her makeup and looks about fourteen years old. He's suddenly not sure she'll have the answers he's looking for.

"Keeping up appearances," he says, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Also, there's something I'm not getting."

"What is it?" she says, putting her book down.

"I just- don't understand. Your aunt is clearly an intelligent, accomplished woman. And from what I gather from Sally, her grandmother is not an idiot."

Cheryl's brow furrows and she leans forward to rest her arms on her knees. "You want to know why they fall for it when it's so obvious to you."

"Yes. And you knew there was something off even if you couldn't put your finger on what it was. So why don't they see it?"

She considers for a minute before answering. "Loneliness, for sure. It's hard for any woman to get older, and then to be widowed or divorced. So many of the men their age are only interested in younger girls. It's an ego boost for sure, having the attention of a handsome younger man. And then, love just makes you do silly things and believe the best even if there are a million warning signs." Her eyes get bright and dreamy as she's speaking and he wonders if she's thinking about a past boyfriend or her recent encounter with his roommate.

"I see," he says. "Actually, no I don't."

"Haven't you ever been in love, even a little bit?"

He thinks back, over some boyish crushes and the more sordid trysts of his adolescence, and shakes his head.

"Never."

"Lust makes people do silly things, too. Sometimes even sillier things than love does. Oh!" She is staring at him intently now, enough to make him want to leave immediately. He knows the next question she is going to ask.

"It's none of your business," he says, hoping to cut off that line of questioning before it starts.

She ignores him. "Sherlock, are you a virgin?"

It takes him quite a while to answer. He is suddenly very fascinated with the floral pattern of the duvet.

"Technically, no."

"Technically?"

"Yes. I have penetrated a vagina with my penis but did not come close to completing the act." Part of him hopes she'll leave it at that, but he also has a strange desire to just tell her everything.

"What happened?" she presses.

He stares at the duvet again, spends some time tracing the outline of a rather garish cabbage rose.

"I penetrated her, I found it too—overwhelming—and stopped."

"You just stopped?" she whispers, fascinated. "Holy shit, it wasn't her first time, too, was it?"

"No. She was rather experienced, actually."

"Okay, you're going to just have to tell me the whole story."

"I'd much rather leave it at that."

"You can't just leave it at that!"

"I can leave it any place I want."

"Please, Sherlock? I'll tell you all about my first time."

"Why would I want to know about that?"

"You're right. Well, I'll tell you a really dreadfully embarrassing story in return, okay?"

"If it's anything to do with when you started menstruating I'm not interested."

She rolls her eyes. "You're really not squeamish about that, are you?"

"Of course not, I just don't understand why it should be so embarrassing."

"Well, it's nothing to do with that. So tell me about this girl."

After a long suffering sigh, he lays back across the foot of the bed and puts his forearm over his eyes, telling himself he's just shading them from the light.

"It was when I was away at school. I had a bit of experience with a few town girls, nothing more than some heavy petting, a lot of it under the clothes. But this girl, Vera, went to our sister school. I know what you're thinking but I ended up with town girls because it's easier to get into a girl's room when she lives upstairs from just her parents who are always working than when she lives in a residence hall with a matron and a dozen other gossipy girls. In order to hook up with a public school girl, you had to be willing to do so in semipublic places—the cinema and the like. I may be a bit of a narcissist but I am not an exhibitionist."

"So, how _did_ you get in her room?"

"I didn't. She was good friends with a girl from town whose parents were split up. The girl lived with her mum, who traveled a lot for work, so almost every weekend and a lot of afternoons there was something happening at her house. Lots of spliff, pills, some hard drugs. I did cocaine for the first time in that house, and vowed I'd never put it up my nose again. Anyway, Vera had come up to me in front of the cinema one day and said that she'd heard I was a wanker, but that she thought I was delicious looking and then asked me to come with her to her friend's house. I'd never been invited there and suspected it might be a trick, some ploy to humiliate me, but she was beautiful and charming so off I went. That day we just snogged in a closet for what seemed like years, but every time she invited me over, she would let me go just a bit further. She was incredibly bossy and always told me exactly what she wanted me to do. Then one day, she told me she'd gone on the pill, and she'd always wanted to do it without a condom, so since I was clean, being a virgin, would I like to do the honors. I should mention that she was giving me fellatio at the time, which unfortunately had obliterated any rational thought I may have been able to form about the situation, so I agreed. "

"You just _believed_ that she was on the pill? And that _she_ was clean?"

"As I said, fellatio is not good for brain work."

"Apparently. Go on."

He goes to the window and opens it so that he can smoke. He lights a cigarette and takes his time continuing. The only reason he hasn't binned the entire experience is because he needs it to serve as a reminder when he is tempted. He'd never really planned on telling anyone else about it, but he feels distanced from it, as though the story will just remain in this room, a few hours from home and many hours away from where it happened.

"There's not much more to say. We snogged, disrobed, performed various acts associated with foreplay. Then I entered her, and immediately was so overwhelmed by stimuli that I froze up. It was just far too much. Every one of my senses was engaged to capacity and my mind was racing, analysing every one of those sensations and what they meant on a chemical, biological and evolutionary level, and also the possible emotional implications of what I was doing. Not to mention the fact that I was literally inside another person, the thought of which sent my thoughts racing again about the physiological processes that happened to allow such a thing. And I withdrew, and threw on my clothes while she was yelling at me, asking me what the fuck was wrong with me and calling me a weirdo and a lot of derogatory terms for homosexual, and I fled."

"Oh my god," Cheryl says. "Did she tell anyone?" Her eyes are glassy as though she's going to cry. Empathy. Dull. (Though it does cause a brief tightening in his chest.)

"No, it would have reflected badly on her to have a boy actually run from her bed, so she just told everyone that I was crap in bed and had ejaculated prematurely."

He finishes his cigarette, and puts it in a vase of flowers, which is the only conceivable place in the room to be rid of it. He leaves the window open to the sounds of crickets and the wind in the trees. He composes his face, putting on his usual wry smirk, before turning around.

"So, about your embarrassing story," he says, sitting on the bed again.

"Well, it was really just going to be about accidentally running into the boys' change room during a swim meet, but somehow that just doesn't seem all that bad anymore."

He laughs. A guffaw that breaks the remaining tension and sends Cheryl into a fit of giggles as well.

"You really can't tell anyone,though," he says, putting on his serious face again.

"Cross my heart," she says. "Now off with you."

He goes back to his room and slips between the sheets feeling strangely light. As a soft rain begins to patter on the roof, he falls into the most peaceful unaided slumber he's had in months.


	21. Chapter 21

Cheryl had stayed up far too late reading her graphic novel, and had also gone down and pinched a bottle from her aunt's wine collection, so she is looking a bit peaky as she stares across the breakfast table at Robert Allen shoveling sausages and eggs and beans and toast into his mouth at an alarming rate. Sherlock had laughed when they had met on the stairs this morning and she had told him how her night had gone, but now he wishes she were a little more alert. As it is, he has to keep kicking her under the table to stop her staring at the way Allen handles his flatware.

"This is awesome, Franny!" he says to Mrs. Wendell. "Gotta be all this English country air. People always talk about it, in books and stuff, but it really does stimulate the appetite. It's like you don't even realize how grimy London is until you get out of it."

Cheryl opens her mouth to speak and Sherlock aims his socked foot at her ankle again. She glares at him, eyes red rimmed, blood shot and a frightening shade of green (red a contrasting color to green causing the iris to stand out more) and turns back to her toast and tea. He gives her an outwardly loving grin with what he hopes reads as warning in his eyes.

"You sure are quiet this morning, Cheryl." Allen chimes in. "You look pretty worn out, too. Did something keep you up all night? Or someone?" Allen guffaws at this bit of wit and reaches for a rasher of bacon.

"Robert, really!" cries Mrs. Wendell. She swipes at him playfully with a tea towel , all smiles. She's quite a handsome woman, tall and solid, with an engaging smile and slightly brassy voice. Green eyes like her niece and dyed red hair. Must be her former natural color, though. Cheryl is ginger under all that black dye.

"Come on, Franny! I'm just joshin' her. But you know I may seem like an old fart to these two, bein' almost thirty, but I remember what it was like to be twenty. You can bet anything that separate rooms and a hallway wouldn'ta kept me from my girl. Sherly here's looking like he slept like a baby, though. "

Sherlock gives Allen a knowing smirk, all while cataloging the different ways he could make the man shut up, if he were so inclined. But the breakfast really is delicious, and might be the only thing he will eat today, so he stabs into his sausage with his fork (a fat, country sausage, full of herbs [reminds him of a long ago holiday in Devon]) and plays along.

"Tired myself out, I suppose," he says, winking at Allen. This time Cheryl kicks him under the table. He responds by grasping her hand and raising it to his lips for a resounding kiss.

"Gentlemen," Mrs. Wendell says. "I am by no means a naïve old woman, but really, these things are not to be discussed at breakfast table, especially not with the lady in question present." She gives a very pointed look to Allen. Sherlock feels Cheryl shudder slightly next to him. Realizes that she is really quite worried about her aunt.

"Darling," he says to her. "You last night that you wanted to get some photos today. Are you feeling up to it? It'd be a shame to have brought your camera and tripod and everything and then not use it."

"Oh, yes," she says. "I just think I may need some coffee first. Tea's not doing it for me."

"Let's go get you some, then. Mrs. Wendell, Cheryl had said that she especially wants to get a photo of you and Robert in your garden while it's in full bloom. If you two would select the best spot, we'll be right out as soon as Cheryl is fully caffeinated."

"Of course, dear," she says. "Robert, I'll leave that honor to you while I just go finish putting on my face. The echinacea is looking nice right now, try over there. Or by the yarrow."

Sherlock and Cheryl go into the kitchen, just off the small dining room. Sherlock makes coffee in the French press, wordless until he hears Mrs. Wendell's bedroom door shut and sees that Allen is indeed wandering around the garden.

"Do you need something stronger?" he asks.

"No, no. I'm fine. Just coffee. I just couldn't sleep because I really am so worried about her. Didn't have any spliff on me so wine was the next best thing. Took a lot to finally knock me out. "

"Do you, er, remember anything from before? " he asks, as he starts to press the plunger into the pot.

"You know I'm not that kind of a drunk. I don't black our or anything. But you don't have to worry, I'm not going to tell anyone what you told me. I told you I wouldn't."

He pours the coffee into a large mug for her. Adds a splash of cream and hands it over.

"Perfect," she says after the first sip.

"Chemistry, nothing more. Let's take these photos so we can get on the road before I make that bastard eat his own hat."

Fueled by the strong coffee, Cheryl manages several photos of Mrs. Wendell and Robert Allen, and finishes out the roll of film with shots of the garden, the house, and a few photos of Sherlock being accosted by a neighbor's goose, which had wandered onto the scene and started pecking at Sherlock's toes. He doesn't know if he is more angry at the goose, or at Allen, who laughed as though he had never seen anything funnier. If there's one thing he does have right, it's that laugh. He sounds like Rhett Butler when he laughs. Loud and stomping and confident. He had hoped that the animal would turn its attention to the fake American, but the goose had complied quietly and promptly when Allen had shooed it over the hedgerow.

Sherlock is still grumpy about the situation when they leave, though no harm has come to him, but his mood lifts as they get closer to the city. Mr. Allen hadn't been very hard to figure out, but he had figured him out when others could not. He felt a small bit of validation for all the time he has spent not just observing people but learning why the things he observe are important, which things aren't, and how things fit together. He doesn't exactly know yet what he wants to do with it, but he is beginning to think that it is definitely useful outside of a laboratory.

She has the windows down and the radio turned up. He holds his arm out the window, parallel to the car, palm flat and feels his hand split the air into two streams. He vaguely knows the song that's playing; it's the Oasis song with Sally's name in it. He is letting the chorus take his mind to other places when Cheryl abruptly turns the radio off.

"Hey, you never said why we have to take one of the photos to the police."

"It's been over twelve hours and you still haven't figured it out?"

"I've had other things on my mind. Just tell me."

"It could be a long shot, but even if we can't pin any money thieving on him, he may be wanted for other crimes, or have warrants out. The police would be very happy if we can point them directly to him, and he would be out of your aunt's hair and bank accounts."

"Poor Aunt Fran, though. No matter what, she's going to have her heart broken."

"Perhaps people shouldn't go around getting their hearts into situations that may break them."

"Oh, Sherly," she says, ignoring his withering glare at the nickname. "If only it were that easy."


	22. Chapter 22

"Gran, your 'sell' box is not even half full, and you've just started another box for keepers. You've really got to start being more selective!"

"I know, darling, but it's so hard. We'll make another pass through them when we're finished. Just consider this the first cut, yes?"

Sally is sitting on the floor next to Gran's record player, acting as DJ while she tries to influence her grandmother's decisions. They have set up operations in the lounge/dining room, having pushed most of the furniture back to make room. The space is awash in every color and texture and fabric imaginable, as though a costume shop has exploded. Sally has a small pile of clothing set aside for herself, and an even smaller one for her sister. Mags had declined helping with this, but Sally knew there were a few things she would regret not having. That black Givenchy sheath dress for one.

Mrs. McGuinness offers an opinion from her perch on the sofa when Sally and Gran are at an impasse, but mostly stares at her glass of wine and sings along softly to the records. Sally is beginning to think that the records are making both ladies too nostalgic for this exercise and considers pulling out her own music. Except that Gran doesn't have a CD player. Balls. She finally just puts on some Schubert, hoping that it's less likely to conjure up memories of dances and parties and romantic interludes than her previous big band and doo wop selections have.

"Okay, but seriously, remember what this is about. Making room and making a bit of money. There still won't be room for a bed in there at this rate. We'll take a break in fifteen minutes."

"Such a task master, isn't she, Ina?" Gran says, with an affectionate look over her shoulder at Sally. She is holding up a Kelly green swing coat and inspecting all the buttons. She eyes it wistfully for a few more moments before putting it in the sell box along with a matching hat.

"What? Oh, yes, Ruth," Mrs. McGuinness replies. "So much youthful energy, too. And just look at her, her hair tied up like we used to do when we went in the factories. Very fetching. You're really such a dear, Sally, putting up with us old ladies all day. Are you seeing any of your friends while you're in town?"

Sally hasn't thought about it. She doesn't even really know who was still in town anymore. She'd lost touch with some people when she'd been sent to boarding school, and others when she had gone to London. She'd always kept her circle to a small group of close friends, anyway, leaving her sister to be the social butterfly.

"I may look up a couple of people, see if they want to have a pint," she says noncommittally. She's been trying to think of a way to bring Mrs. McGuiness's money troubles up, but obviously it's just too touchy a subject. She can't even bring herself to ask Gran any questions about Matt Gundersen, the bastard who'd made off with all of her liquid assets. This task of essentially sorting through her past and deciding what is worth keeping is hard enough without bringing up more demons. Gran has been fighting back tears on more than one occasion. The wedding gown was a particularly difficult moment, even though it was an obvious keeper.

The phone rings and Gran answers it.

"Hello. Yes she is. Who's speaking? "Gran's eyes widen and she gives Sally a sharp, confused look. She places her hand over the mouthpiece. "Sally, it's that young man, Sherlock Holmes. Why does he have my number and why is he phoning you?"

"I'll explain later. I suppose we may as well break now."

Gran hands her the phone and takes Mrs. McGuiness into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, hold on one moment, okay? I'm going to pick up the extension in the bedroom." She goes into the bedroom and picks up the extension, then runs back to hang up the one in the lounge, all the while wondering why her Gran won't just give in and get a cordless. She flops down on the bed and picks up the phone again, sitting against the headboard with the phone's cradle resting in her lap. She is reminded briefly of talking to boys on the phone when she was younger, but pushes the thought away.

"I thought I told you not to call here."

"Why doesn't your Gran have a cordless? Sounds tedious. Anyway, you did tell me that, but I also told you that I would call regardless. What have you found out?"

"Well, nothing yet."

"You've been there for an entire day and you haven't found out anything? How do you ever expect—"

"Look, Sherlock, this is a trying time for her and I don't want to go poking at old bruises out of nowhere."

Sally realizes that there is an awful lot of background noise, and just makes out what sounds like an overhead announcement.

"Are you calling from a payphone?"

"Yes. I'm actually calling from the train station. Bringing the photo of Mrs. Wendell's man myself rather than fax it. Image quality would be too poor and I also imagined you wouldn't be able to get anything out of either of them."

"These aren't random witnesses, Freak. It's my Gran, and a woman I've known since I was a baby. It has nothing to do with my investigative skills, if that's what you're implying. I would never be allowed to question either of them if this were a real case."

"Sally, I wasn't under the impression that we were playing make believe."

"You know what I mean. Don't come here. "

"Oh, there's my train now, Sally. See you in two hours. No need to set another place for tea."


	23. Chapter 23

_This utter bastard_. That's all she can think as she stares at him across her Gran's garden table. He is just charming the socks off of the two old ladies. She stabs a strawberry with her fork and glares at him as she eats it. He is talking animatedly with Gran about the evolution of ladies fashion in the 1950s, of all things. Attentive, fawning almost, his smile never dropping even when Gran looks away. Is he actually enjoying his conversation with her? Gran is a totally charming and interesting lady, to be sure, but part of this has to be an act. Even when she and Sherlock talk about things he is interested in, he affects a lethargic drawl, as though he is so bogged down with ennui that even the act of speaking is tiresome. No, this has to be for her benefit. He knows she had thought he would be borderline rude to the two ladies, and now he is taunting her.

He is dressed more sharply than she has seen him outside of his brother's wedding. Dark jeans with no holes (though her Gran would probably find them too baggy) a white dress shirt straight from the cleaners and a pin striped waistcoat. And of course, the Doc Martens. His hair is even relatively orderly.

He had shown her the photo of Robert Allen when he'd first arrived, after she had finally let him in. Robert Allen was not her grandmother's suitor, Matt Gundersen, though he looked a bit like him. Sherlock was undeterred, however, telling her that con artists often work in pairs.

"And you!" he says now, turning to Mrs. McGuiness. "While Mrs. Donovan was in New York living the life of a beatnik, you were London? An absolute Bohemian goddess I would imagine? How did you keep your friendship going?"

Mrs. McGuiness blushes prettily and answers. "Oh, we were all great letter writers in those days. Had to be. We'd send telegrams if it was urgent but I've just got stacks and stacks of letters from all of my friends. And I've gotten a few of mine back when people have passed on. And oh, the post cards! From all over the world. Most of mine are from Ruth here, but I had quite a few friends who traveled after the war. Got a taste of the rest of the world or just realized you only live once and you may as well do what you like."

He smiles sweetly at her (Sweetly!) and pats her hand, telling her that he'd love to take a look at her post card collection. That might actually be true, Sally thinks. He could probably figure out a person's entire story based on a few lines of writing and the choice of card.

Sherlock glances at her and does a slight double take when he notices her expression. Then, the bastard winks at her and it is incredibly difficult to not throw a biscuit at his smug face.

"Look at that!" she says. "The sugar bowl is empty. Shall I fill it?" She doesn't wait for an answer and stalks inside.

"Oh sweetie, let me," Gran calls, following her.

Sally is practically flinging the sugar from the canister into the bowl, so her grandmother takes the scoop from her to prevent any accidents.

"Darling, I know he's been rude to you before, but he seems to be trying to make a good impression. And coming up here from London to see you, too. Why are you in such a strop?"

"He's just sucking up to you. I've seen him do it with his own relatives."

"Oh of course he is, dear. I know that. But considering how some of your other friends never even bothered to pretend to be nice, I'd say it's still a good thing."

"I told him not to call me and I told him not to come and he still did it. He just does what he likes and doesn't even care. It's just so infuriating."

"And why did you tell him not to come. You told me earlier that you'd sort of patched it all up or at least called a truce."

"I thought he'd be rude to you and Mrs. McGuiness."

"Well, he's not, though, is he? So you've got nothing to worry about. Though if he plans on staying the evening he is going to have to find a hotel. Your father would kill me if I let him stay over. Friend or not."

Sally doesn't want to think about her father or what he cares about.

"Where would he sleep, anyway? Throw him out in the garden in my old tent?"

Gran laughs and hugs Sally. "Come along now. We're being terrible hostesses."

They come back outside to find Mrs. McGuiness in tears as Sherlock consoles her. Gran rushes over.

"Why, Ina, whatever is the matter? We've not even been gone ten minutes!"

"I'm just being a silly old woman, Ruth. We got to talking about travel and I was telling dear Sherlock about how much I loved my cruises and then I just started thinking about how everything's gone all pear shaped . I've just been terrible not telling you the whole awful mess when you've been so good to me."

Sally gapes at Sherlock, who gives her a bit of a smirk before turning his attention back to Mrs. McGuiness. My god but he really is good. Five minutes alone with her and without asking her any pointed questions, he gets her to spill it all.

"Bastard." Oh shit. She'd said that out loud.

"Sally!" Gran gasps. "I am sure it is not Sherlock's fault that Ina is upset. She's had a very rough time of it, just like I did three years ago." She turns back to her friend. "I cried at the drop of a hat, you remember? I ran right across the park to you one day, wailing like a banshee because my ganache had seized up when I was trying to make a cake." The ladies share a laugh. "Now, if you must get it all off of your chest, please do so. But not for my sake."

Mrs. McGuiness takes a huge breath. "Okay. Well, in January when I was in the Florida Keys, not on cruise but a proper vacation, I met a man. A handsome young American. Oh, Ruth, I see that look in your eyes and yes, that's exactly where this is going and it's exactly why I didn't tell you at the time. I knew you'd be worried and suspicious and I was just so happy I didn't want anything to spoil it. He said he was there managing some rental properties for his cousin and trying to write the great American novel. Stayed in this ramshackle little cottage and managed a few more little beach cottages. He even had a few cats with 6 toes like Ernest Hemingway. He reminded me of those writers who used to come visit you and Tommy every now and then after you'd moved back home."

Gran smiles at the memory and urges her friend to go on.

"Same old story, different silly old woman. I extended my vacation and after a while he started talking about how he wanted to buy out his cousin and renovate all the cottages, make them something really spectacular, but it all depended on his selling his book. He said he'd use his advance to get it all started and then using the revenue from the rentals so he could write full time. Well, of course I know from knowing you and Tommy and all those other writers how hard it is to get published and how small most advances are. He just seemed so sweet and sincere and really believed in his dream, just living out on that beautiful island and writing. He was from Iowa, which is landlocked you know, and was just so in love with the sea. It all seemed so romantic and when he talked about it, he always said "we." So I cashed in some stocks and raided my savings accounts and handed over a cheque, telling him it was an investment in our future." She starts crying again, and Sherlock hands her a fresh handkerchief. If Sally hadn't been so concerned about Mrs. McGuiness, she'd have been a bit more annoyed about the fact that Sherlock was actually carrying a handkerchief.

"Oh it's all just so embarrassing. I don't know how you've stood it so well, Ruth."

"It's okay, dear. Take your time."

She dabs her eyes a bit more. Sally is sitting next to Sherlock and can almost feel the tension radiating from him. He is getting impatient with this, but has to keep up the façade of caring about some of the more sentimental details. But he smiles sympathetically and pats her hand.

"Well. A couple of days later he just vanished. No note, all of his things gone from his cottage. I'd gone down to see him in the afternoon because he'd said the night before that he'd be writing all morning, and there was a woman and a man and their two children moving in. They must have thought I was completely daft. I actually thought so too, for a moment, thinking I must have come to the wrong one. But there was all the same furniture, and the mismatched tea set and all the same board games and books. I still thought there must have been some mistake, or that he was in some kind of trouble. I waited a whole day and when he didn't return, I contacted the owner of the cottage, thinking surely his cousin must know something. The man laughed when I referred to Steven as his cousin. He said he was just a wannabe writer type who he'd let use the cottage for a few weeks while he was away, in exchange for free rent. He was quite mad that he'd left before the end of the agreement, and said that he'd known him as Robert."

Sherlock starts at the name.

"Robert Allen?" he asks.

Mrs. McGuiness is completely perplexed. "Why yes, dear. How did you know that?"

"Part of why I came here is that I just uncovered that a relative of an acquaintance was being groomed for the same con by a much younger man. Knowing about Sally's grandmother, and your sudden change in fortune, I thought there might be a connection. We've turned in his picture to Scotland Yard and alerted them of his location. They're going after him on a fairly long list of old warrants. His real name is Patrick Hewes. Yorkshire born and raised. I doubt we'll be able to get your money back, even if it is him, but it looks like he'll be in jail for a long time from the other crimes. Is this him?" He produces the photo, showing the blandly handsome man with Cheryl's great aunt. Mrs. McGuiness begins sobbing again and can only nod her head.

"Let me take a look at that." Gran holds her hand out for the photo and gasps when she sees it.

"Well, my word. This is Matt's brother! I met him once when we were viewing the building where Matt was going to put his 'art gallery.'"

Sherlock sits back and smiles, fingers stapled under his chin. He raises an eyebrow at Sally.

"Piss off," she says.


	24. Chapter 24

"How hard was it to get the police to take you seriously about Hewes?"

They are taking a walk in the park. Sally has been banished from the cottage "until she can control her language." He is thankful, though. Mrs. Donovan doesn't allow any smoking in or around her house so it is his first cigarette in hours. He hopes to extend the walk long enough to smoke at least three more.

"The first two people we spoke two were idiots, trying to shoo us away like we were children. But there was a detective sergeant who happened by who was willing to at least listen. Said it wasn't usually his area but that he had a grandmother and wouldn't want something like this to happen to her, or something like that."

"You know, you could at least have shown Mrs. McGuinness a photo of him where he didn't have his arm around another woman."

"It's the only one we had. There wasn't really a good reason to get a solo photo of him. Besides, why should it matter if he was with another woman? The man conned her and stole her money. "

"It doesn't mean it still wouldn't hurt to see him looking happy with another woman."

This sort of thing is exactly the reason that he avoids romantic involvement. As Cheryl had said, love—and lust—make people do incredibly silly things.

"I won't even bother to attempt to find the logic in that."

"There is none, Sherlock," Sally says.

"Tedious."

They walk in silence. Sally reaches for the cigarette occasionally. He asks her the first time if she'd like one of her own but she says no, she would just waste half of it. She's wearing strawberry flavored lip gloss, which lightly stains the cigarette end and lingers on his lips.

"Haven't you ever been in love?"

Not this again. Why is everyone so interested in his love life?

"Oh, look, _Digitalis purpurea_," he says, leading her to a bed of purple foxglove blooming near a stone wall. He crouches down to examine the bell shaped flowers. "Digitalis, from the Latin 'finger.' The common name may have come from 'folks glove' referring to fairies. Used medicinally by herbalists for centuries. Toxic, but its extracts have been used in modern cardiac medications. Only lethal in very high doses, or over a long period of time. Repeated exposure to the plant could cause a slow death that could be mistaken for a wasting illness. It also contains a Digoxigenin, a steroid used to detect DNA and RNA, among other things. And it's only found in this and a few other varieties of Digitalis."

She takes the hint.

"Have you ever thought about going into forensic science?"

Damn, this line of questioning isn't much better. Mrs. Donovan had told him that he should be a detective, he's so clever. From the vast collection of detective novels on her bookshelves he has the idea that she has an incredibly romanticized view of a detective's life.

"If I wanted to have this conversation I'd be visiting my mother." He starts walking back the way they came.

"No, listen," she says as she catches up with him. She practically jogs to keep up with his longer strides. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Well, maybe I am a little. Think about it. You'd never be bored, and you're so brilliant with chemistry and biology, and what you did for my Gran and Cheryl's aunt and Mrs. Wendell was pretty great-"

"First, I'd be out of my mind with boredom with all the paperwork and whatever else. Secondly, this was child's play. Even you could have figured it out ages ago if you'd just focused on that instead of your feud with your father." That should get her going on a different subject. He has no interest in discussing his future beyond what to eat for dinner (he is thinking Indian would be superb) and whether or not he will get high this evening (he is leaning toward yes because he is already getting bored.)

She practically leaps in front of him, blocking his path. "Hold the fuck on. What does my father have to do with anything?" He moves closer, invading her personal space. It's a nasty trick but it usually works so he uses it.

He looks down at her. "You could have helped her. You're perfectly capable, but you were too busy rebelling to pay attention."

Surprisingly, she advances instead of retreating. Looking right up at him and even standing on her toes so she can get closer.

"Like you give a toss about her. All you care about is being right. Doesn't matter what anyone else wants. I told you I didn't want you here and you ignored me."

"And if I hadn't come they wouldn't have any closure. It may not be too late to recover some of Mrs. McGuiness' money and we have a good lead for finding your grandmother's fake American.

"So what I think doesn't matter at all, then? The ends justify the means and to hell with boundaries or rules or just fucking basic human decency? I don't know what I was thinking even suggesting you could work on a team or for anyone but yourself. So you'd better fuck off or you'll miss your train and you are not setting foot in her house again."

As she hurries back down the path and out of the park, he realizes how awfully familiar this scene is. He lights another cigarette and follows, walking slowly so he'll have time to finish. When he gets back to the cottage, his bag and jacket are sitting on the stoop. From inside he can hear Mrs. Donovan's quiet voice speaking in soothing tones, punctuated by energetic outbursts from Sally. He makes out the words "bastard" and "freak." Best not to disturb that scene. He collects his things and walks to the main road to get a taxi.

On the train home, he thinks about their argument. He had wanted to make her angry so she'd quit asking him questions, so why was he unsettled? As much as he sometimes desired companionship, friendships were almost as complicated as romantic relationships. People ostensibly like you for who you are, but then they always end up wanting to help you or change you or give you unsolicited advice. Exhausting and distracting.

But still. He admits it may have been easier just to tell her he didn't want to talk about it, instead of sarcastically hinting at it and then derailing her. She probably would have listened. No. He knows she would have listened.

"Stop it," he mutters, shaking his head. This draws an odd look from the grey suited man across the aisle. He looks him over briefly.

"You know, your wife is eventually going to work out that you're going to the pub instead of the office every day, so you may as well tell her now that you've been sacked." The man's jaw drops and Sherlock turns away, curling up in the seat and looking out the window.

Two days later, he is sitting on the floor in his lounge, surrounded by sheet music and scrap paper, working on a music based cryptographic algorithm, when there is a soft knock on the door. Not Gary, who wouldn't knock. Not Cheryl, who is accompanying her aunt on a garden tour of England. Certainly not Mycroft, who wouldn't bother to knock and would never knock so softly if he did.

"Come in!" he says, not wanting to get up.

"It's locked."

Oh. Sally. Surely she's not out of clean clothes already, and school hasn't started so what could she want this time? He goes to the door and opens it. She's empty handed. Slip dress, flannel shirt, Chucks. Not making eye contact. Arms crossed in front of her, but in a defensive manner, not out of anger. Hasn't been back in the city long though she obviously stopped at her flat before coming here.

"Well?" he says.

"Thank you, I guess."

"Thank you?"

"Yes, for what you did. I never thanked you and that was completely uncool."

He shrugs, and opens the door wider.


	25. Chapter 25

She always thinks of that night as the night they progressed from being acquaintances to being friends. There is no official conversation, like in primary school when you just asked to be someone's friend. They don't talk about what happened in the park any more than they had talked about what happened in the summer house. They just watch a documentary about Jeffrey Dahmer and eat takeaway. Well, Sally eats takeaway. Sherlock is working on his cryptography project and he is also using (he doesn't say as much, but the dilated pupils and clenched jaw say plenty) so he isn't eating. She makes him chew gum so that he won't damage his teeth by grinding them, and he looks at her in surprise. She doesn't know if he's surprised that she knew, or because he hadn't thought of this as a solution.

Though they don't talk about the park or the summer house, those incidents set a sort of precedent for their relationship. They go days and weeks getting along. They don't always talk. In fact, they sit in silence more often than not. One or both of them reading, Sherlock playing his violin, Sally doing coursework once fall term begins. Mostly at Sherlock's flat, though sometimes he shows up at Sally's at odd hours, unable to concentrate because Gary has friends or a girl over. In these instances, Sherlock will just talk. He is talking at her, working things out, and will sometimes continue while she is asleep.

He shows interest in her school work when it involves criminal investigations. He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the most bizarre crimes around the world and throughout history. Sometimes this is helpful, and sometimes it just bloody distracting.

Inevitably, they get in fights about petty things and legitimate grievances, and one or the other will flounce away. The flouncer isn't always the flat occupant, either. Several times, Sally finds herself alone in Sherlock's lounge after he has stormed out. She always takes these opportunities to empty his cupboards if he has anything in, her contrariness piqued by their arguments.

One night, she is working on an analysis of evidence collection using real closed cases, and Sherlock keeps trying to convince her that the conclusion drawn by the police and court on one case had been wrong. She tells him that it doesn't matter because she just needs to do the assignment so she can get some sleep, not work the case, but he won't let it go. He keeps taking her book from her to study the case more closely. The third time she does this, she yanks it out of his hands and slams it on the desk.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you're so convinced you're right you better bloody well go to Scotland Yard yourself and tell them but leave me the fuck alone so I can work."

She turns away and scowls over her work. Thirty seconds later she hears the front door close.

She finishes her assignment in peace, then clears out before he returns—had he really gone to Scotland Yard?- taking a full tin of biscuits and some premium Darjeeling with her. She tells herself she is done of his lunacy.

One evening, two weeks later, she drags herself home after a full day at school and a shift at the bistro to find him sitting outside her flat, reading a book, his legs stretched out into the corridor. She steps over him to get into the flat, but leaves the door ajar for him to enter. She's pleased that he respected her wishes that he not break in. He comes in, settles on the futon and continues to read. She goes about her usual evening ablutions and collapses in bed. They don't say a word to each other. When she wakes up, he is dozing, sprawled out with one leg and one arm dangling onto the floor. She puts her blanket over him and he doesn't wake up. It is the sleep of someone who has been up for days. She goes to class and he is gone when she gets home.

They go places together occasionally. Mostly so they can people watch. Sally always suggests free things, but Sherlock sometimes suggests museum exhibitions that have a fee, which he always pays. She objected once and he told her it was stupid to object when he had the means and she didn't. She tried to explain that it made her feel beholden to him, and he told her that was even more absurd. She dropped it.

Most people assume they are a couple. (Her friends hate him and call him her boyfriend derisively.) Sally is always the one to correct them. She feels that it is her duty to correct people, as it has always been her experience that the male decides the definition of the relationship and when that will be spoken out loud. She is so enthusiastic in her denials at times that she's afraid it will upset him, but he doesn't seem to care. He never corrects anyone, even when she doesn't, and she soon realizes that it just doesn't matter to him.

She takes him to the movies, once, at a dingy second run theatre near her flat. She steers him away from _Trainspotting_ (he wants to see if it will cause him to crave heroine) and toward the other film, an American vampire flick called _From Dusk Till Dawn_. The movie is obviously a B movie parody, but that doesn't prevent Sherlock from keeping up a constant whispered monologue about the movie's shortcomings. She tells him to shut up more than once but he can't stay silent for more than a minute or two. During a scene where Selma Hayek is dancing provocatively with a live snake, Sherlock begins telling Sally about the species of snake and its habits. This finally becomes too much for the man sitting in front of them. He turns around and bellows at Sherlock.

"Shut the fuck up you bloody posh tosser or I'll shove my boot so far up your arse you'll be eating the shit off of the bottom of it for a month."

Sherlock looks at him for a few seconds, scanning him thoroughly in the dim theater.

"As ambitious as that would be, I imagine you are relying on the fact that in the past people have backed down based solely on your sheer size and menacing facial expressions. And when those have not been enough, you rely on your brute strength when fighting. However, because you are intimidating you've rarely actually had to fight, so you aren't skilled at it, and would be made short work of by someone with even moderate speed and agility, even if they were half your size. Your weaknesses are exacerbated by the fact that you are asthmatic, myopic and drunk. As for the shit on your boots, I assumed at first that you were merely adding color to your threat but judging from the odor wafting from your seat, you have either literally stepped in shit or bathed in it, seeing as there are no pig farms in the immediate vicinity at which you would be employed."

The ensuing fight is over quickly. The larger man hurls himself over the seat at Sherlock, swinging wildly. Sherlock stands up, pulling Sally out of the way with him, uses the man's momentum to flip him to the floor, punches him in the nose, takes Sally's hand and flees the cinema with her. They run all the way back to her flat, where they collapse on the futon, laughing. When they finally calm down, Sally chastises him.

"Really, though, Sherlock. You can't talk through movies at the cinema. It'll get you killed some day."

"I suppose it'll just have to be videos in from now on."

"Then I'll have to be the one who punches you in the face for not shutting up."

They lapse into silence, which is broken by giggles every time they make eye contact. Until once they look at each other and are suddenly serious, and the air between them becomes electric. Her cheeks feel hot and flushed and it's not from the running or the laughing. And he is definitely staring at her mouth. She gets up to go make tea, to go to the loo, to do anything but let this happen, but he catches her hand and pulls her back down. When she sits again, she is closer to him than before. She stares at the small constellation of freckles on his neck and at his pulse jumping just above at his jawline. He takes her face in his hands and she looks in his eyes and wonders if she looks as serious and scared as he does. She gives him a small nod, and he leans in.

His lips are so soft. She has never kissed a white boy with a mouth like this. It had been one of the first things she had noticed about him. That full, exotic mouth on that haughty, angular face. He is not aggressive, starting with a few chaste exploratory kisses. He doesn't force her mouth open, but nibbles on her bottom lip so that she meets his opened mouth willingly. He tastes of Pepsi and cigarettes. He is sweaty from their run, and the musky teenage boy scent that he has not quite outgrown brings back fragments of memories of the frantic tanglings of limbs in cars and closets and other borrowed places.

Just as the kiss really begins to intensify, as he presses in closer and his hand begins to meander from her face to her breast, he stops. He pulls away. Not abruptly, but as though he is pulling himself from quicksand. Sally is afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to see that he has shut off and shut it all out. However, when she looks at him, his eyes are scanning her, and they are full of confusion and frustration and wonder. His lips purse and he runs his thumb over her lips once before sighing and leaning back, staring straight ahead. She curls up on the opposite end, lying against the arm of the futon, pillow under her head, knees drawn up so her legs aren't invading his space. He takes a saucer from the coffee table and sets it on his knee, then pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and smokes languidly, flicking his ashes into the saucer. He is processing, and she doesn't disturb him. She is processing plenty as well. Finally, he inhales sharply and begins to speak.

"Have you heard of Elizabeth Bathory?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Hungarian countess who is said to be the most prolific female serial killer in history. It was rumored that she practiced vampirism, drinking the blood of her young female victims. While that is not proven, it is definite that she tortured them and mutilated their bodies. Like many serial killers, the number of murders she was convicted for probably pales in comparison to the number she actually killed. It is sometimes estimated to be as high as 650. Her victims were mostly young peasant girls she brought in to each them the skills necessary to be maid servants. If you haven't read about it you should, merely because the patterns, the motives, the madness are all comparable to serial killers of today, even though she lived almost four centuries ago. "

He goes into greater detail about the case, and about other instances of killers who claimed to be vampires or were rumored to be. She is exhausted from weeks of relentless work and school, and begins to drift off. As she does, she smiles, thinking this has to be the weirdest bedtime story in history.

She is still on the futon when she wakes up, though she is wrapped in her duvet. She is alone, but there is a note scribbled on a Chinese menu on the counter.

Sally,

I tried to wake you so that you could move to your bed; however you were quite violently adamant about not being roused, so I left you where you were as I did not want to risk a black eye.

SH


	26. Chapter 26

"Absolutely not."

"I haven't even asked you anything yet."

"You started talking about a fancy dress party and it's obvious you're going to ask me to accompany you. My answer is no."

Silence. He can't see her face, but he knows that she is fuming and considering her next move. He takes a deep drag off of the spliff in his hand and then shoves his hand out past the shower curtain to offer it to her.

"No." She says. "Why the hell are you smoking weed, anyway? And in the bath?"

He withdraws his hand and exhales with a satisfying cough, then reaches out to run more hot water into the deep claw foot tub.

"Bored, to answer your first question. And why not to answer your second." He takes another large hit and puts the spliff in an ashtray. He ducks his head under the water to see if the smoke in his lungs impedes his holding his breath for as long as usual. He exhales while still under water and wonders if it would be possible to get a transdermal high if one were to infuse bathwater with enough THC. She is mid-sentence when he surfaces.

"—parents are out of town for a whole week and she's got this amazing house. She's been having people over all week but wants to do something outlandish before she has to get the place cleaned up. So she decided on fancy dress. She was going to do Tarts and Vicars but we convinced her that was cliché."

"Good. Because we'd have a hard time deciding who would be the tart and who would be the vicar, wouldn't we?"

"So you'll go?"

"No, Sally. You've known me the better part of a year. Why would you think I would go to any party much less a fancy dress party?"

"Think about it, though. You're always on about details of people based on clues in their clothing and hair and whatever, so how about giving yourself a challenge and seeing what you can figure out about people when they're in costume. You said you were bored, right?"

Once she put it that way, it was a bit tempting. His brain has been in overdrive lately, going from project to project, yet he has been unable to alleviate his boredom for more than a few hours at a time. He hasn't been able to shut it off, even when he knows he needs sleep. It's another reason he has taken to smoking spliff; it lets him turn down the volume on the noise in his head just enough to relax, without taking him completely out of commission the way heroin does. It has the added bonus of giving him unsubtle reminders that he should eat. Speaking of which.

He pulls back the shower curtain just enough for his head to be seen. She's sitting on the vanity, in jeans and Chucks and an overlarge sweater (ex boyfriend's obviously.) He imagines she'll be coming by with her washing in a day or two. In contrast, her hair is done and she is wearing an incongruous amount of eye makeup, considering her outfit.

"I'll go on one condition."

"Yeah?" she says.

"I'll be finished bathing in approximately half an hour's time. I need you to order about fifty quid worth of Chinese. Doesn't matter which restaurant, just get enough that there are leftovers for later. I'm paying, of course, but it will be nice for it to be here when I'm out of the bath. At least half a dozen egg rolls, nothing with seafood. It's always overcooked."

"That's it? You just need me to make a phone call and you'll go?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" His stomach is starting to growl a little. As she leaves, he calls after her, "What am I to wear?"

Thirty-five minutes later, he is inhaling egg rolls while Sally blow dries his hair.

"Why is this necessary, again?"

"To make it a little straighter. Give you that edgier mop top look that Jagger had going."

"And why am I going as Mick Jagger in the first place? I'd much rather be a scientist. Tesla, Da Vinci, Bunsen—"

"No one would recognize you as a scientist and you'd spend the entire night having to explain it which would make you grumpier than usual, which might get you pummeled. Anyway, you're Mick Jagger because you've got an enormous mouth and are skinny enough to wear my dead cousin's clothes. Though I imagine there'll still be people who think you're Richard Ashcroft. Or Liam Gallagher."

Her dead cousin's clothes are a pair of white flared trousers which laced up the front and a skin tight black sleeveless shirt with an alarmingly deep v-neck.

"Your cousin wore these?"

"Technically Dad's cousin, Gran's niece. She died pretty young and Gran ended up with all of her clothes. She was smashingly tall and thin as a rail. I loved it when she visited, because she always brought us amazing things. She travelled all the time."

"Model?"

"Sort of, I guess? That's what I always thought. I remember she said she was an 'artist's muse' when I asked her once what she did. Didn't know until I saw Gran last that she was a groupie."

"Hmmm," he says. He is listening, but is also acutely aware of her body as it presses against him intermittently as she attends to his hair. Then there's the fact that what she's doing to his hair feels delightful. She's not exactly gentle.

"Her nickname was originally 'Long Tall Sally." I'm not named after her, that's a coincidence. Makes my mum furious. Her real name was Hazel but, well, God she was tall. Maybe 6 feet? She had all this crazy frizzy bottle blonde hair and practically no eyebrows. She was in at least one Bowie video and Andy Warhol photographed her. Then they started calling her 'Long Shot Sally' because she had this knack for latching onto unknown bands just before they got their break. Gran said EMI even offered her an A&R job."

"I take it she didn't accept?"

"She told Gran she would have been a sell out if she had. It was right after EMI dumped the Sex Pistols. But yeah, knowing all of that, her being sixteen when she first went on the road and all, I kind of understand a little better why my parents blew up so much when I ran away. Of course it was the running away and the selling my grandad's things, but I guess the big thing was that I ran away to follow a BAND. Afraid I'd follow in her footsteps I guess."

"They don't sound like bad footsteps. She did exactly as she wanted."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

She is quiet for a long while as she finishes with his hair, then turns the dryer off and hands him the mirror. He is still incredibly high so his first reaction is to laugh. He really does have a lot of hair when it's straightened, and she's got it pushed forward and framing his face. It's almost girlish. He says so and she whacks him on the back of the head and tells him to get dressed and she'll do his eyeliner.

"Eyeliner?"

"Just a little. The Stones only ever flirted with glam."

"You came here completely convinced I would say yes."

"Not completely, but I figured I should bring everything just in case. I'll go change, too." She grabs her bag and goes into the loo.

"You never said who you're going as," he says as he shimmies himself into the flares. Cousin Hazel really was impossibly thin, wasn't she? When he puts the shirt on, he realizes she couldn't have had anything in the way of breasts, it's cut so low.

"Scary Spice," she yells from the bathroom.

"I thought you hated the Spice Girls?"

"I don't hate them as much as I wish I could escape them. And this was last minute so I went with what I have. What I have being a massive amount of hair and some very short shorts. "

She comes out of the bathroom and he stares at her, unabashedly. The shorts are indeed very very short. They are also leopard print. She is wearing a black bra, platform knee high boots and, that's all. Everywhere he looks there is skin. He finally settles on her face and realizes from the look on it that what he's wearing leaves as little to imagination as her costume. He looks down and starts fiddling with the laces, making sure everything is tied properly. There wasn't exactly any room for underwear.

"So, erm, sit back down and I'll just do your eyes a little and we'll go?"

"Yeah," he says. He doesn't take his eyes off of her as he sits in the chair and she comes toward him with her makeup bag. She sets it down on the table behind him and pulls out an eyeliner pencil. She stands between his legs in order to get close enough. He is at eye level with her breasts and her bra is a modern engineering marvel. She places her finger under his chin and tilts his head back so that he's looking at her face.

"Close your eyes."

He complies. She works quickly, and he is keenly aware of the quick strokes of the pencil on his eyelid, her soft breath on his face and how amazing she smells. She finishes, then leans forward a bit more to toss the pencil back in her bag.

"Open," she says. He complies. She looks back and forth from eye to eye, determines her work is symmetrical, and starts to step away. He only thinks about it for half a second before his hands are on her hips, pulling her back toward him.

He has kissed her more than once since that first time. They have never talked about it. Sometimes he just feels as though he won't be able to think about anything else unless he kisses her, so he does. He is desperate to understand why it's so different with her than it was with Vera, the girl who sort of took his virginity. He tells himself that that is why he keeps doing it.

Sally's back is deliciously bare and she shivers a bit as he runs one hand up to her neck and then down to rest just at the waistband of her shorts. He runs the other down her thigh and gives a gentle pull at the back of her knee, silently willing her into his lap. She complies, resting her forearms on his shoulders. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her as close as possible before kissing her.

This one is immediately different. Every time he's kissed her before, it has been exploratory and somewhat tentative and he has always stopped himself before his mind became too hormone clouded. But this one seems to start where all the others have left off, as if the last few weeks and the last hour were foreplay. Her hands are in his hair and his are on her breasts and in her hair and on her back. When he begins kissing her neck she moans softly and rolls her hips against him. He kisses along the top of her breasts and she does it again. He has an unshakeable urge to take her nipple in his mouth (he can almost feel it before he does it) and he has just hooked his fingers into the top of her bra to pull the fabric down when she pushes him back.

He looks at her with her hair everywhere and her full lips slightly parted (she is breathing heavily, pupils so blown her eyes seem almost black) and has never in his life wanted to fuck someone more. She puts her hand on his face and wipes her lipstick off of the corner of his mouth before placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"We'll be late," she says, getting up and putting on her coat, a long leopard print number with a fur collar. She looks him over after she checks her makeup. "I'll run downstairs and see about getting a cab while you, er, get yourself sorted."


End file.
